Etichete


 “Father, photographs only

– translation by demand –

(Page 43)

around me

more and more nooks

places doors walls

unknown figures

I don’t recognize anymore

the pain vomits within words

a flaccid smile begs

at the corner of the street

I often wondered what do you see while there is still light. the walls only? although the right question was how much ubiquitous light still reached your inwards through all the surfaced memories with no links to those still existing. and I am raving in here. each having his now moment. sometimes I was somebody else, a stranger whom you were telling about your son, gone away over seas and lands somewhere near an enough blue water. you were narrating me in the past present time, I was not even a peel of the one inside you.

as days go by

I am departing from people

forgetting myself

*

(page 19)

during the days with little sun

it’s already winter

I sneak images into my sight

I hollow the black and white photographic corpse

And I reach out with my hands

to enfold is a sort of a defense. an askew lack of prop when to have is the same as to be. actually you didn’t exist for the old tongues. the same way I shall have not been at a late time and I doubt of us ever meeting again. there is neither other shores, either another dimension, nothing would ever tell us to make everything right if we were to be others, more meek. I hallowed the cross made of tiles mother was fretting the incense the candles the wheat porridge the priest the crosses the wine yes father, maybe now he will stay still to rest his silence given by you.

we function

hanged by deadlines

and paid bills

the tally of all celebrations

or other lonely notes

*

(page 84)

nothing is possible

not even the memories are jutting out of the flower pot

only the understanding weights more

so coarse as it grows erratic

over fluky objects

the way we were to each other

I don’t remember how it was when I was at ten, nor at twenty, neither at thirty, and I was already far away at forty, tomorrow there is an impossible fifty or should I say an irreconcilable fifty. the decimal arithmetic is very clear and with no emotions. borders laid by hand with no genetics.

what would it be like if I were to dig you out of there

by reciting poems?