These are the moments when a merciful
sleep reveals itself
to a delightful night.

These are the hours when a star,
condemned to the pity
of its own shadow, loves hypocrisy,
delights in a desire that brings
nothing new.

You still wear my body - you forget
how many paths it has taken
to get stuck on this side of loneliness.

I am not a wish
that comes true when we forget.
Is it freedom that makes
a person die
in the middle of a sentence?

Is it sleep, stolen from God,
that makes us like our own tears?
I'm trying to soothe
your fickle heart.
I want to shine, enough so
that distance deprives me
of faith in heaven.

Quite by accident I encountered
your touch, it is still too immature
for me to regain a lost whisper,
to cry out a prayer.

My tears are frozen. Even sadder
words that no one deserves.

Sorry, there is not a single homeless
river lurking nearby.
God does not walk around,
staring at the space at His feet.

The bird of my melancholy
has perched on the border between
life and heaven;
a branch bends, the last boulder
breaks away from the ground.

Air spreads within me, a breath
of freshly renovated sky - I will find
an antidote
to an overly noisy thought.

Sleep will never be
reconciled with night.
Your tears are so uncertain of my lips,
so vast that the soul stops
in mid-question.

What good are the answers if they
are so stereotypical?
What good are people if hope
has settled in the corner
of the mouth?

Or maybe a surfeit of tenderness
makes me dare to love in vain?
Is it fear that prevents you
from living emphatically?

Stars of this evening are silent.
The Moon is noiseless, late for its own
thirtieth birthday.

Unwritten, endless poems
hurt the most.
Thoughts, barely begun, are associated
with a life that has begun
too hastily.

I am here, close to memories
of future - I do not have the strength
to lift my own shadow,
to deliberately end my sleep.

I am your sleepy doubt, pride -
the stars boast.
Or maybe pity will make hatred
fall silent, shouted over
by the silence?

Would fear make me stronger
than memory?
Solitude deprived of life
is merely a vestibule to the garden,
to the orchard, where apple trees
die in the middle of summer,
forbidden fruit grows.

I stole from you the last morsel
of conscience, a sip of prayer -
painful, infinite.

I will never encounter this irony again,
this light quite unresurrected.

I wish I could find the lost time
that would lead me
to your used dreams.

I try with all my strength
to feel the indifference
of signposts.

My body, abandoned to fate
in the fifth corner of the clock,
today collides
with next year's illusion,
for which I will not be able
to be reborn.

There is little enough time left
to put a juicy dot
and start another farewell letter.

I will find in you that despised
morning that took away
my deadly future.
Perhaps one evening
I will understand
the power
of your recalcitrant distance.

I will write a poem on your back
that will not scare this year's
tears away.

I am the silence
which prays to your words.

I try to find the silence
that will bring me the ballad
sung by your heart.

I try to reach the very beginning
of this poem, although I know
that it does not face me
with a smile.

I do not know how many light years
it will take me to find
your tenderness,
the wind that scatters
your pale memories.

I want to immerse myself
in the abyss of your body,
to taste the moment that glues
our torn wings together,
that seeks existence
where only desire can reach.

Try to feel the last of your breath,
to understand the pain
that is bothering you again.

I'm crossing out the last sentence,
it's time to start
from the beginning.
The last star will witness
the fall of this year's paradise.

I fall apart into missing pieces,
I suffocate with light.

My Dark Messiah, I fall asleep
at the very beginning
of a sentence.
I am reborn, although
my body
is going in a different direction.

I try to understand
the silence
that fills your tears,
the spasmodic cry for victory.

I do not succumb to illusions
that spread at the speed
of light.
I don't fall in love
with words that have no thoughts
of their own.

I would like to free myself
from this autobiography.
My tired, sleepless time
would rather
please my nights -
I know that memories will return,
that they will lead me
to the edge of this land of hatred.

I dream so that you can
free yourself from the shackles
of fear.
I'm having an interesting
conversation with myself.

My Dark Messiah! The lost warrior,
the incurable loner
who is still searching for
a world of his own!
I see glimmers of hope
in your crimson pupils.
I sense a truth that is not associated with
any memory.

Terrified of my own heart,
I try to find the right future
for you.
My illusions that fill
your victorious time,
today resemble only dried tears,
words covered with a thick layer
of dust.

I would like to fall asleep
so that the future will give me back
my desires.
I hide in the fifth corner
of my heart; I know that one day
you will fall before
the border of whispers.

I will experience that fear,
which has never loved in solitude.
I will get used to sleep,
whose insomnia is coming
to an end.