Monday, April 09, 2007


Too much urgency to sell
Sober enough to indulge myself in the abscence of others
Not unlike the thick-walled chapel of prayers
Awaiting happily for the melody of the gate-keeper
Turning away passer-by's from the slow depth
As to protect their pilgrimages
Leading their way out of the endurance
Into the gardens and the water-falls
With a smooth note of comfort
Should it suffice not to violate the rules
Of the covenanted unpromises
Turning the sailing way into a faith of a kind
The urgency flows with an antipode of life
As though the lyric would shun the yearning of the field
For the fire and the hatchet
It halts the course of the river
Inside a hurricane
That mildly prevents the little houses from lamenting
And lest one keeps himself from this urgency
In a tiny Greek gulf, pondering from which cliff to throw the ashes of the poet
One could as well die, individually,
Without yielding enough to scream with screeching noises
But silently awaiting for the older brothers, in cafes, in brothels, in benches
Looking at the pedestrians, trying to imagine the freedom of their masks
Of their lies
With very little inspiration, but for lyres of fallen angels
Imported from foreign cities, lost letters, distant countries
That weigh beneath the cold of the nude hand
Painting everything with that lack of desire
Papering the walls of one's own harbor
As to re-invent himself on and on and on
To enable him to live with others too
That could keep themselves company
With the same voice, same commandments
Breaking the time into a loosen continuum
As to resemble Gods coming nearer and nearer
Not awaiting myself any longer
But throwing myself upon the face of the hill
Of the train, of the man, of the book
Perhaps I am impatient
But whoever deprived of an old ripe age
Would never dare falter.

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