There was always a thought I was harboring, 

waiting for the right moon's crescent above us, 

waiting for the right soil, fertile and strong.

I've crossed the cold oceans—holding it, 

Winds of rough nature—further molding it.

So, to come home and unfold it to you.


Flying above daffodils.

History of our lands—
these crumbled stones,
slowly eaten and swallowed by the meadows.

This fatigued yore—I did pass too.

Again, reverently saving it; 

from the hungry eyes,

from the hectic minds.

Delivering it, like a ring of my devotion—to you.

1.
Winter’s grey dusk lies hollow,

virtue of warm tears melts into,

as it snows onto,

and everything whistles above the soil.

2.
Passengers arrive at the house,

in black silk robes,

hems soaking in cold water.

Drenched.

Their eyes too, soak in the hollow sights

of inner, perpetual, agonizing upheavals.

Their eyes freeze and fall,

fragile winter tree glass *****.

No house remains in sight.

3.
The moist skin of the sky

elongates its soft arms,

laying the cold body on the ground in slowness.

The beautiful face of the body cries:

sweet liquid of happiness.

It’s alive, brined in everythingness.

4.
Love the darkness in closed eyes.

Love the somberness of your soul.

Love all the murk shapes of nature,

and the ominous abyss in yourself, behold.

Dreams have not yet left,
the skin of eyes in solace.
Only omnivorous vermin
are eating the waiting time,
ready to French kiss minutes themselves and,
by far,
engaged; in a hurry, impatient to marry the seconds;
ready to do the job after a Proustian search for the lost bits of it.

But what is this yearning?
What if
it’s already the dream of a butterfly,
in which this addiction of ours
has fundamentally been an illusion—
still soaking us to detect
if we are able to purchase nothingness,
hoping for no gravity while falling,
anthropomorphizing inanimate concepts.

What a reckless bird,
Snitching the snow under the legs.
In the omnipresent blueness of this night,
Which is held by occult hands with
Long black nails,
In openwork lace.

And the sky has its eyes,
Chestnut curls spiraling glaciers,
Cut and chipped,
Onto our eyes as needles falling through,
Sewing the horizon.
As if poked, named papercards with the red thread,
During the conclave.

Stretched cardinals through the starry path,
Indicative of a new heart to arrive
On the prolonged, upside-down riverbed,
Provident messiah.
Will come as Minerva came through her father's head,
Fully grown, wearing golden armor.

As Adorno has written it,
the splinter in your eye is the best magnifying glass available.
But do splinters reside only there?
As we walk on this grass,
as we unconsciously frolic in the golden night with an hourglass at the center,
as in the heart of a city.

And watching the motion of legs cross from the left to the right hemisphere, as if watching life through a double window,
in a detached manner,
so close to calling it resistance,
so close to nearly having the inner force to find the desire to break the double window.

Perhaps the splinters of our lives,
as if shot on 35 mm film, reside in Hyperuranion,
where our fates reside as the primordial idea,
only leaving us in a role of a craftsmen,
and by rear chance–philosophers.
And maybe time, as after Augustinus, truly was created by God, when the sky and the land.

But earthly, I too can’t catch its full glory—
but a splinter, but a splinter.

Long awaiting on shore

for mysterious nights,

that come to your doorstep,

holding a dandelion in their naked hand.

Light reflections of riverbed on the sleeves,

all the white candles that we bear without burning them,

as if we wouldn’t burn ourselves

on the threshold of an agonizing encounter

with desire itself.

But the brave one reverses the curse,

knows how to touch glaciers without melting them,

knows the nature of love affairs.
And in repose, glances at the face that holds immaculate grace,

without attaching it to their own possessions,

without possessing the heart of this face.

Adept of gentleness,
of mature patience.
The wise nights.

Guarding my heart;

What an idiosyncratic strategy.

People’s actions are carved straight lines on someone’s soft arms.

And their minds, saddled like horses,

nonplussed.

From behind, a wave of broken lightbulbs approaches,

Fragments of glass violently driven into the skin.
In those dead lights, memories are evaporated.

Only the surplus remnants of them are now able to fill the gaps.

This was accepted in advance.

Hearts are birds falling from great altitudes,

remembering a swan song on their way,

holding a printed picture of a beloved.