Nights are liminal;
mirrors of the darkest quality,
walking through which brings
—landscapes subliminal.

Not on your warm palm lies,
neither widens your irises.
Silently, it crawls in the feverish, mysterious mind,
in which memories start to expire,
leaving you at the mute dusk,
making your body transparent,
immobile.

In a room lit by a sizzling bulb,
guarded by innumerable church icons,
no one is there in you
to believe
in higher powers.

The reality, finite,
is and is not in the sizzling bulb.
That, too,
will be finite,
terribly soon.

The sun prolonged the overture,

two red carnations facing his face,

his body lying on white satin.
Waxy and cold,

My face tilts toward the corpse,
no longer here, yet definitely present.

What is this feeling?

And is there a being,

or is this the swan song for his soul?

If there ever was a soul,

If there ever was an everlasting spirit,

that drives this car,
then crashes into stone,

stays alive,
but not its vehicle—

by far, it’s him alone

who continues the journey

by prudent legwork.
And as he lies there straight,

i see his pale face,

knowing that this is the farewell,

yet he’s not there to listen to goodbye—

Or is he?

Accept the two carnations, Dad,

and rest on that white satin.

Looking at your eyes from underneath,
with a heart too full of words.

Imagining you see the endless journey,
bountiful panoramic views.
Let me enfold you with my soul in this forever image
of graceful frolics by the sea,
by mountains, and fields of daisies.

Please see, please see what I long for you to perceive.
Don’t let yourself go through any more turmoil.
Forget the pain,
and just keep frolicking with me.

I hold your hand and heart—
there’s no more loss,
no more horrific means.
Your eyes shall see the light,
my love and my devotion.
That’s what I will be putting in your sight.

Embarked on an ardent, darker flight,
forcing my own soul to seek tenebrous love.
Weary of constant dizziness,
of complicated thresholds,
and of the spiritual crime.

What brought us to this night?—
the mystery,
the fright.
What has been kept? What will be given?
So unresolved and so opaque,
this—what enfolds the being.
No clear path, no order,
no purity in time.

Only today, we have become able to touch and feel time.
Only today, heavenly—the sky has fallen onto our minds.
Only today, this soil feels omnipotent.
What once separated us from birds
is now only the flying distance.

All lost hopes of becoming beautiful end today.
All the pain on crying faces melts and evaporates today.
And the sun will never die, nor the splendid flowers
that our mothers love.

All wars shall end today,
all children will find their way
to redefine the strength of heart
that kept their breath on hold
and blurred their sight.

How beautiful it is
that there is no other day
that can be called today.

our hands,
these are our hands holding a tender white bird,
an elegant creature of signal,
feathers of brighter times,
glances of loftier views—
ones that we, on land, must wait to understand,
with time, which stands far more mysterious;
time that crumbles and stretches,
dies without being born,
lives without comprehending its body.

The war for boundless and infinite satisfaction
happens to be the most complicated—
simply because we tend to understand only finite things.
But besides,
because we despise pain,
fighting to endure only pleasure,
which itself is the most bitter poison.
Living one day with eyes closed,
another without windows and doors.