A keresés eredménye

Seven moons

There are nights that are made of my hugs
and a silence common to the violets
and there are seven moons that are seven traces
of seven nights that were never made
 
There are nights that we take to the waist
like a girdle of big butterflies.
And a risk to blood in our dark flesh
from a sword to the sheath of a comet.
 
There are nights that leave us behind
wound up in our disenchantment
and white swans that are only equal
to the most distant wave of their song.
 
There are nights that carry us where
our ghost remains closer nearby:
and it is always our voice that responds to us
and only our name was certain.
 

Insomnia

Insomnia. I open the window. Fading away
Into the abyss of starry solitude.
The peace is unsettling and a feeling
Of no hour comes from the Moon to nothingness.
 
In this is there a sinister god the instrument
Of submitting myself in figured death?
Astral silence. Static torment
In the eternal insomniac who inspires the idle hour.
 
Suck my blood an agonizing octopus.
The specters of prostitutes in the avenue
Skirt delirious thought.
 
The eyelids weigh down. The idea of falling asleep
Grows rotten. The day clears up now
In a tender bough of the tree of life.
 

Ode to the Peace

For the
truth, for the laughter, for the light, for the beauty,
For the birds that flutter in the gaze of a child,
For the cleanliness of the wind, for the acts of purity,
For the joy, for the wine, for the music, for the dance,
for the mild melody of the whisper of the rivulets,
For the glint of the summer, for the blueness of the clear day,
For the flowers that enamel the fields, for the quietude, for the pastures,
For the exactitude of the roses, for the Wisdom,
For the pearls that trickle from the eyes of the lovers,
For the wonders that are truthful in the dreams,
For the love, for the freedom, for the radiant things,
For the ripe aromas of soft autumns,
For the future morning of the great transparent ones,
For the maternal and fecund entrails of the earth,
For the tears of the mothers to whom bloody clouds
Snatch away the sons for the turpitude of war,
I conjure you oh peace, I invoke you oh benign one,
Oh Holy One, oh talisman against the ferocious industry,
With your hands that slaughter the flags of ire,
With your hide-and-seek of the bomb and of the tormentor,
Open the doors of the History,
let
Life pass!
 

Self-portrait

White throbbing shoulders:
wings in exile from a body.
The scintillating railway arms
for the train of the soul.
And the emigrant eyes
in the ship of the eyelid
stranded in renunciation or cowardice.
At times female. At times nun.
In accordance with the night. In accordance with the day.
Mollusk. Soaked
sponge in a filter of magic.
Spider of gold
ensnared in the web of its ruses.
And at the feet a heart of porcelain
shattered in infantile games.