Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.

In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

My eye moves down to the *** of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon's blood ray.

We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time

It is time

**Paul Celan

A time comes when you no longer can say: my God.
A time of total cleaning up.

A time when you no longer can say: my love.
Because love proved useless.
And the eyes don't cry.
And the hands do only rough work.
And the heart is dry.

Women knock at your door in vain, you won't open.
You remain alone, the light turned off,
and your enormous eyes shine in the dark.
It is obvious you no longer know how to suffer.
And you want nothing from your friends.

Who cares if old age comes, what is old age?
Your shoulders are holding up the world
and it's lighter than a child's hand.
Wars, famine, family fights inside buildings
prove only that life goes on
and not everybody has freed himself yet.
Some (the delicate ones) judging the spectacle cruel
will prefer to die.
A time comes when death doesn't help.
A time comes when life is an order.
Just life, without any escapes.

**Carlos Drummond de Andrade

I said I love you in the field of honor
and she was like a colt, her name
like the moon caught in my throat,
she was water I held in my hands
like the canoe I worked through the river,
and she was a flash at two-thirty
in the morning of the suicidal knife,
and she was a fire of pine cones,
a butterfly that lit on the float of my pole,
and she was like the night herself.

in the centre of the cathedral
the square of a little town
where those in the know tell of an invisible cathedral.
a massive guest
the outside light
there is such purity in the pigeons’ feathers
superfine flour falls from the sky
on buildings on trees on people’s shoulders.
small bones rattle echoing in the coffin of a small guitar
while the world can no longer contain happiness.
there at the wall
two lovers wind into an 8.
late. in their shade
a blind horse
is crying sweat from its neck.

Ion Mircea, from *My Cup of Light

I believe there is no sanctuary
for me in this subdivision
of dreams, cathedrals
built by unknowns

I am like grass
cracking their concrete,
I was carved by a stone knife
in the mountains
where I learned to speak

I am the rider called death
bleeding in my sleep,
sitting in the saddle
with Dark, the black man
and his crazy blues

I sink down like a diver
into the deep water,
like an unknown poet
going down with his ship.