Days are gone, all of them, with all who are in them, with all that is in them,
no trace was left to prove that they have existed,
except for steps being embarrassed between the last wait, and the memory;
demolish their echo, between an awakening and a siesta: a night silence;
once that lonely elderly, who never goes,
and if he does,
just for a moment, ends before he been forgotten: the death;
and as he is longing for some companionship, returns with proud of being the only one the lonely one;
absorbs a new loneliness companion,
a fuel for his endless road.
Days are gone,
when the universe used to be upside down,
wakes up on howls of wolves,
sleeps once the birds sneeze, through their beaks holes, the sun,
with that voices that we agreed to call them: peep.
when the river wasn’t asking the fisherman: “what did you come to do?”
it was enough for it, that lovely scratching of the decoy, between the tufts of its water, to open its heart for the fisherman, reveals to him about the places and the kinds of all fishes inside it,
As the snows melting stings its skin,
it doesn’t flood over fields that being watered, once with sweat,
times with the bleeding blood because of the grasp of the shovels,
but, it becomes more blueness,
so you almost see the bottom just as you sink, by you are immersing your eyes, under its spume, your face
you literally test what it used to mean the word “rebound”.
when the pregnant was giving birth in the field
cuts with the same scythe, that she trims by the nails of the wheat, her umbilical cord
leaving the baby, until the end of the day of harvest, breaths the cosmos
weaves first sensory memory with it,
from the smell of the earth.
/ I believe then, we would go out to the blueness of existence, laughing
after a long cry in the darkness of nothingness /,
Ran away through my mouth, my heart,
even though I was closing it,
biting on my teeth,
it broke them as a berserk bull, smashing the door of its barn,
although I was not berserk at the time,
I was, perhaps, sad, a little more than just usual,
I mocked myself:
Are not those two “just a bit more than usual”
the encourager of revolution, every revolution /.
I shoot it, my heart,
isn’t it “In every man a prophet sleeps, when he wakes up, the evil being increased a little bit in the world” *?
aren’t we, deeply,
a uniform coin with two faces of a slayer and a victim!
mind and heart
is not art born of those whom their coin standing on its tiptoe,
dancing the dance of “no victory” to any of its faces,
but a harmony when the frequency of its cycling gets strong,
you see the two sides of the coin overlapping together,
however, it cycles,
wherever you look,
/ that’s may also be an aesthetic definition of eternity,
I mean, the eternity of every moment with its glittering and its fading, at the same moment
at itself, the moment,
not the eternality of permanency /.
Pain does not come from the heart, no,
but comes once you see a heart wailing in pain,
and you can’t shrink to get through to it,
lie down beside it, hug it,
then fondle gently on its head, whisper with your warm breath in its ears: “it’s ok, soon it will all stop completely, once you reconcile with the fact that you do not pulsing life as you were told, then with your fragile kindness, believed them,
but you only flounce of pain,
kicking death as a slaughtered horse, and do not die,
but, it’s, all this will stop, once you finally decide to stop”
Pain is the heart.
Margin: “In every human being sleeps a prophet, when he wakes up, evil being increased a little in the world.” this phrase by the writer Emil Cioran.