Another Way Round

Anytime, Anywhere

 

This is the time when the roses begin to bark

all over the damp ground;

this is the time when the dogs wake up

and start chasing their own tails,

this is the time when the first rays of the sun

shine on the white clothes on the washing line;

this is the time when the scarecrow pisses on

the half-asleep sunflowers;

this is the time when the owls go to sleep

in their beds made of mice skin, blind snake eyes,

and pieces of the night’s flesh;

this is the time when the stones begin to breathe

again with their hard-rock lungs;

this is the time when the wind, like an angry

cobra, hisses inside the old and greasy

chimney of the crematorium;

this is the time when the noses stalk the air

for freshly brewed coffee;

this is the time when everything starts to live

again and again and again…

This is the time when the early-rising peasant

takes a very fast swing with the scythe,

powerful enough to cut through anything,

even us. 

 

 

 

 

Gloaming Song

 

The night is coming, dark and thick,

as if the black color is celebrating its birthday.

The kids go to bed,

the grownups drink wine in this

vinous kind of hour.

 

And then all gets quiet.

The windows are illuminated only by the TV

screens, but they are all mute.

Even the big trees on the street are silent.

 

Darkness, your silence is on

everything that moves or squats in the mud.

Now it is at my mouth!

 

Will I be able to sing at least one song before

I fall silent forever?

Will you let me finish this book in which

the protagonist is about to cut off his tongue?

 

 

 

 

Oxymoron

 

Half-promised land

under half-bluish skies

 

The whole world

is only one word

 

Sometimes

I go out and come in it

again

to figure the souls conversing

in their multitude of languages

of things profound

 

The world went on

with its words

 

   And speech passes through

the branches like wind

but the leaves do not even

flutter

 

 

 

 

Loud Silence

 

 

We sit in the soft chairs

facing each other, and we

listen to the beautiful music

coming out of the small

radio on the top of the piano.

The room is trapped in

twilight and the aroma

of bitter-sweet memories.

Your lips are tight-shut,

and your eyes are closed,

but your head moves with

the slowly unfolding rhythm

of the dark, German sonata.

Suddenly you raise your

finger in a gesture which tells me

to shut up, though I’ve said

nothing for the last

two hours.