Monday, November 01, 2004


Dedicated to my friend, Lara Diguistini.

You always remind of home,
The tiles and the insular houses of Sankt Gallen,
You remind me the village,
From whence I came,
To where I've never been.

You remind me the sweet smells of the streams,
Of the streams that carry no smell,
I'm trapped in the procrastinations of Jerusalem,
Down here time is a deadly event,
But you always remind me of myself.

Standing on my edge, I hunt your thought,
You protect me from my endlessness,
From the unspoken world,
It's an encore of Sankt Gallen, a thin screen of fog
Behind the fog I see my home

We recreate the scenarios of God,
For him the prayers of my childhood you prepare,
I talk to him no longer,
He and me are already both adults,
Our bodies are ties and mobile phones.

I sink into the night, when you visit Hesperides
I have no longer seen them since then,
Since the days of Sankt Gallen,
Since a summer lost in time,
The child, the mother, the wind.

From within my hills, from above the top...
From there I see your field,
The watery milieu, the comfort of the child
From the cold rendes-vouz of my science
To and fro, I overview a child.

You remind me of my life,
Of that life I never wrote,
It was in agreement with God,
I would be an ultimate man,
A cradle of thought.

It's like a frozen violin,
Sweeping away the chill,
Edging through bleeding thrills,
Journeying back and forth,
Biblical epiteths and men.

From my fountain you drink,
In innocent drunkenness you stream,
Not granting me my solitude,
You preclude yourself from my battle,
Yet from my fountain you drink.

Shall I die one these days,
Drowning in the puzzling darkness of my mind,
Shall you visit Jerusalem one day,
Please do walk through Rechavia,
You'll see me there when as a child.

You always remind me of home,
Of me as a child,
Even when within my glasshouse world,
My knowledge protects me,
Of its frozen operas, stream I become.

You walk blind in my roads,
Sit next to my fire, it's burning you at times
You remain without consent,
It's all so different therein.
It's a phenomenologic world.

I still curdle up into your words,
Into your absolute values,
They keep me going at times,
When yellowing white days,
When all-hued turns my grey.

Were I to live again,
I would be me indeed,
But I'd share a tile in your greens
I'd deny this world in blue,
This universal Blues.

At times,
When it rains
You always remind me home,
But I've never been there,
My wisdom in still,
My wisdom knows no still,
My wisdom knows, still.

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