Life
is a sparrow downed
while flying
secure.

 

Look!
Winter is approaching,

serious,
normal, leaning
against the barren trees.

Thoughts of every season
in terse clouds.

 

Renewed fables

of ancient times.

With raised brow,

 

I will enjoy
many a light treat,
cool, pure
flakes.

 

On a bough, feathers
of dead birds.
But wait!
Loving
a tender finger
will comb my brow.
l’ll speak of seasons
that howl within,
and run by.

 

I shall trembie,
embodied in time.

 

I love being alone in the evening;

fire without sparks;
hearing you come,
saying
that in me you love the world,

the world that suffers,
eternally in need
of life.

 

You must understand
the predictable toil
of people
who scrambie within:
the homicidal passion

that obsessed me, once,

in the world.

 

 

It’s a rite that binds

the faraway torment

of meeting you.

Your fables

will love my dreams.

We shall sense a light wind

breathing throngh the pane.
Sudden and furions,

hailstones will beat and,
in the alley blind,

a bulb will light on

in a hnrry, perhaps.

 

 

 

The houses,
a life hidden, at ease,
in the thick of the night.

 

Cnddling,
by the hearth,
l’il rest my hand
on my love nearby:
we shall have no pity

for time expiring.

We know
to be
nothing.

Of us
people wiIl speak
as of a story

of love.

 

01-12-2011