My love, here is the Fortress
and here I recognized myself
the most, here I contemplated
you staying awake in front
of the death here I uttered
the first prayer and you appear
there where I disappear
you, fibre listening to the universe
my torment begins then when
you don’t give me the expected
answer and I can no longer believe
in the harmony nonetheless
those invisible hands that knead me
donate the rare happiness to me
and spread out their long rebuke.
Names inserted on the globe
of the destiny as on the globe
of the stubbed thumb of an inborn
murderer and your name upon mine,
honey, is like the inclusion
of a strange player desirous of fun ‒
already arranged lifeless until you
regenerate him in other terrors
in other vinification, thwarting,
cancellations, denials and it didn’t
even matter the fact that almost
all those writers on record
on the thumb were some mind-boggling,
Bolshevik mediocrities.
***
The melodious moon is waning
the sunk shadow of the rocks is dying,
the drama of the unbearableness
of the inability to carry on, of the agony
of the wall that is rising in front up
to the sky you can’t blow it up
but that’s fine the moon pours you
some balm drop by drop but she unexpectedly
opens the great gentleness of the eyes.
***
The lonely man I feel that I’m a gentleman
close to him never will he defend an unclean
cause. He emerges tranquilly from life
as from a forest with the steadfast thought.
***
To live means to stay awake
to verify whether memory
liberates you from the screw vices
when I seem to be happy
the executioners begin to question me
so I confess that it’s not true
to pull me to their guillotine.
It seems to them that they were
betrayed if you die they don’t deny it
and even if you weep you drink
the poison you drink it even if
you’re bleeding crossbred, bastard
executioners you feed their canine tooth
in the despondent dark. You suffer,
you’re ill and again you suffer terribly,
you live, you poor monkey.
***
You old winter, you don’t depart from us
petrified you’re reclining I watch you
by looking through the soul ice floe
so that I see whereat you are targeting.
I seem to have died within ecstasy buried
in your arms. I sank the last piece of chocolate
into my coffee, I swallowed the bitter porridge
and I resolutely began to work on my unhappy
flesh. Absent through the lamentations
of bronze she will traverse the pack of the tardy
pangs of conscience. Winter, we no longer drain
ourselves of life. I stay hermetically sealed
and tyrannical, ill and sad.
***
All is joy as in an ancient pocket
all is image of slavery, of corruption
of long legs descending from my star
I weave, I scheme, I weave and reweave
the existence I search for what follows me
and hides from my Ego under the level
of the soul beyond the smoke of the black
holes ‒ I see the nanny goat virgin
going up to the crater of the volcano
that exhales fateful crude oil, the nanny goat
grasping some of the gorse with her mouth
and advancing audaciously ‒ thus is the death.
