1
Behind the Wall
On the desk,
a pen
has slept for an age.
It wakes only for meals.
Why not?
Beside it,
a glass—
in a world where nothing
trusts anything—
thirsts for a single drop of water.
While its friend,
the pitcher,
has been pierced at the bottom.
And the chair—
buried beneath dust—
has, of course,
its own reason
to be worshipped.
**
There is an ashtray
on the desk.
It has put on a mask,
presenting itself
as the most beautiful vase.
And to remain
inside that gloomy room,
it must forever submit
to the orders
of the portrait
hanging on the wall.
**
Time has stopped
inside that room
for decades.
Yet the only echo
that dares to break
the walls of silence
is a single click
upon a diplomatic briefcase—
from which leaps
a poem,
wilted,
dead,
like the cracked,
dry lips
of the glass.
**
Outside the room,
the cypress wears
its white hair
upon the earth.
Half the night has passed,
and it is still awake,
bearing witness to the dew
that once combed
the hair of the narcissus—
until the dew became a flood.
It no longer carries away
only the nests of storks;
it has become a river
flowing onward,
merging
into the ocean.
And then…
summer must place itself
beneath the merciless sun
so that its clothes may dry,
and it must not be late
for the fortieth-day mourning
of a spring
that arrived too late.
Seasons of Life
2
In the beginning,
it was nothing but a breeze…
Then came that mad bolt of lightning,
tearing through yesterday’s sky,
ripping the doors from their frames,
leaving hearts
to drown once more in their sorrow,
never knowing
that Love, Loyalty, and Humanity
had become,
long ago,
the Bermuda Triangle.
In the beginning,
there was a little tear…
then a flood.
Then a mad summer storm arose,
demolishing the fragile huts of trust,
snuffing out the lanterns of insight.
From which direction,
I wonder,
will the light return
to the ancient city of souls?
That city
whose pillars were shattered
in the distant past,
and yet
still stands,
buried
beneath the ruins of its own memory…
Nothing remained to be said,
after the poet had said:
“Do not blame
the one who chose
to drown in drunkenness.”
Then why pass this way,
when you see Death
raising its head
from the highest window
of the Tower of Knowledge?
And then Death lets the travellers,
one after another,
pass…
until they bow
and kiss his head.
He was dark blue,
the colour of the sky
when evening withdraws
its final thread of light…
That friend
who refused
to wear
the shirts of this season.
He departed naked,
carrying upon his shoulder
the burden of his age…
In the beginning,
there was the light of a lamp.
Then came
that furious thunder!
It set fire to the grass—
the dry and the green alike—
the grass of generosity
and giving.
And the stream of knowledge
grew turbid…
What, then,
gave birth
to this dark desolation?
Time itself
has lost its way,
and its calendars
have become strange
to your memory…
As for Narcissus,
brief-lived,
he stands in a vase
before a mirror
in the bedroom,
staring
at his own reflection…
and seeing
nothing.
