When I heard a voice from Greece
of tragic moirologist singing
and clicking a pair of castanets
I cooled as if she’d been blowing
on my soul, surprised nymph.
She was a Diana without a bow
only with dulcimer across which
she was moving the little hammers
maddeningly. Seeing me molten
she asked me, “Across whom
did you come?” I was getting closer
to the terrible copulation and when
she found out that I had no money
amazed she stopped and asked me,
“I’m a singing hole. Over there
among you don’t singing holes exist?
I’m a hole of a wild beast.” I run away
from love, I follow the wild beast
as does a dog, I’m cruel to myself
the terror finishes me, I call the hole
passionately, nothing shakes me
she makes a loop of a lock of hair,
puts it to her eye and watches me
nothing shakes me. The day is
darkness to me and blackout the day.
I have my soul locked in the hole
and her hole sings, dazzles and hurts
and I can’t be mine.
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