Friday, April 06, 2007


I call out in the air, with the names, of God and other redeemers
But the answer of the wind comes as callous as his breath
And I blow through a horn the thick but warm breeze
I walk in the streets with my deflating touch, blissful
Yet so entirely devoid of everything, bereft in my own person
Drunk from the solitude of not having any readers
And in the expectation for a word that could match mine
I abandon the enterprise and keep myself from writing
And quite often laugh about my situation
Wanting to resucitate Carthage, and perhaps even Rome
Armed with a paper boat and letters of love
That are addressed to the same castle anew
That no messenger can ever reach
My speech turns into repetitions
And I remember those lives, lived in Jerusalem
In hotel rooms and never home-coming
Writing letters and letters, that can never be delivered
Letters with no recipient, but yet only one recipient
The metamorphosis of my language, into solemnity and silence
Into the security about his own person of the man condemned to death
By hanging, by water, under the spell of the cross in the mount
Re-living oneself in the enactment of official oblivion
Un-living the times of the world with a knowing smile
That paints the sky with all possible mellow undertones
Colour that biffurcate before they can be glimpsed
Falling into a water crest, flowing aloof and distant
As though the faces had never been familiar
And the glasses stand empty from the ghostliness of night-dreaming
Intimate conversations with a gentleman
But only in his abscence, rather insecure about remembering at all
Living out of illusions carefully wrapped in a suitcase
That no Prometheus could uplift, that no one could release
But death and her older brothers, named so many times before
Calling into the air the names, the faces, the stories
Wafting so swiftly into a murderous figurine
Sipping the nectars from the dark stone
Drinking life all the time, only from the sources of death
Awaiting at the train station, whenever no departures are possible no more
Packed into a cup of coffee in a hefty suitcase
Personally divided, between him and yourself
Envying the pastoral calm of the children
Leading life slowly into the slumber of the priest
Sitting in a church for long hours, without walls or frescos
Swimming into the time that beheads immortality with love
Remembering words uttered by other men, trying to locate yourself in the light
But yet night-dreaming in the company of traitors
Craving for their hatchets as they puncture your arm
As they silence, redeem, release, reminisce
So strange to this world, so full of expectation, so bewildered
Strange to the miracles of saints and others, forgotten in the roof of the house
Weary from awaiting the conversation
Weary from awaiting the letter
Craving in the horror of silence, for a word to deceive you
To make you believe the world, to bring you home again
But your hotel room remains about the same
Their pictures hang from a no-frame, their smiles vanish so happily
Into the embrace of your constant dying
And no matter the heroic efforts
Carthage cannot rise up to life again, like the Christ
You have become unable to live with yourself, with your sin
And only thus, you might bereft yourself of the right to die
You might bereave in silence, like the world does, awaiting for Noah not to return
Staring into the empty lights
Imagining that you sleep on a blanket, looking into the stars out there in the country side
As once promised, yet remembering how dead one must be
In order not to regret the resurrection.

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