Morning

One awakes to the screeching noises
That haunted him at sleep too
The twice-empty shadow
With its inexorable demands
Of day-dream living
A kernel of hollow glass
That contains the burrow of the fox
Where he's all alone by himself
And sole visitors knew
The solitude of his endeavour
A demeaneour, clerical almost
Speech-ridden but rather empty within.

O momentum of time
Whenever he rips off his cloth
Following the image
The mirrorhood
Of his pauper own sight
No one could fail to notice
The faltering eye
That hid beneath and within
Spacing up the gap
Between the world he desired
And his deeds
Turning towards God
Not in the search of talent
But of a responsible other
That could account for his own failure
That might even smile
At the pendulum
Where everything stakes.

The piercing tower
An observation point
Even a vantage one
With its green tiles
Fresh as summer
And childlish alike
Silently nauseating the view
Distorting the colours
Of the unkind waters
Unraveling encroachings
Of one with himself
From moments of despair
That couldn't save too much
That couldn't drown
Altogether with the world
That remained after his epoch of bliss
His lyrical age
Nothing ashed out
The whole thing remain incomplete
Like that painting of hers.

The broken fountain
Ran free through the hills
As though without a foundation
To encounter the fox and the vixen
At a distant bridge
Covered by orange trees
Drawn in a winterly landscape
But himself ageing somehow
In the winterly manner
Without losing his strength
But transforming his view
Into a stage
Whereby no one played God
No one spoke
But foreign tongues
Learnt in local prisons
Taken away from local friends
Betrayals
And other poems
Other totems
Poor Socrates
Now condemned to live himself
How unlucky, unlike us
That live with the other
But he never addresses us
He's too afraid
That we might murder him
For asking the questions of Eve
But in advance knowing the answers
That one could as well trade for glue
Of the glimmering kind
Feeling like shattered glass
Noisy but mute.

The burning smell of food
Like books
It's historical
Unlike the children of our days
Religious
Metaphysical
Nihilists
But a little unreal
For saintly endeavours
With little things
Sold at the market
With the purposeless intention
Drowning with their elders
In a broken fountain
Drying away
Self-explanatory stoppover
For mourners of all kinds
Mourning for something they claim
Was never such
And as in the old days
Returning to a beginning
In a nowhere point
That God can't recognize
As a creation story
Or ethical commandment
Amendment
In a more free kind of way
Where the writers of history
Scrub the empty street
And the anonymous man
Rejoices
He makes the claim
Once of Essau
and once of Cain.