Europe after the Rain...

So far it's been

From within a cave

Crafted with slow deeps

Underneath a stair

During my sleep

I endure visions

Of the mightiest port

The kinder skin of grass

And flowers in the fall

In my dream

The stench of the smoke

Pouring out of the skin

Into the cells of cement

Is transformed into waters

That navigate through the nails

Shun off the call of one's death

I see snails and rows of houses

But I hear only waters

They suffocate in the small islands

Twisted from their own thirst

To love the meadows of sand

The crave for piles of hay

Burning in spectacular yellows

Every scrap of paper, a riviera

Keeping the secrets

Of journeys yet undone

Everything vanishes into plaster

Into the smells of unwashed cloth

Into the distance

Kneeling down before the dreams

Begging for another minute

Of delusion

Of a better world

Or a real port

Where the cave

Is transformed into the light

Where the silence

Becomes louder than the tide

The elbows of the poet

Are visible at dusk

The young flesh bruised by the hours

Of the pen

Wearing the thinness of the lotus

Reaching out

Without dying

And also without falling

For kinder words

For another world