Loneliness Sorrow was hanging in the air; the leafless branches behind the railings and you were alone by the window. The night passed in front of your door; it left like a beloved woman, a woman that another man was holding from the waist. And the moon, like a calm, turned off light bulb at the turn of the road above the drug store.
Paris Oh Paris, it was time when I scattered my dreams in your dark mornings and now I leave you taking with me the sorrowful joy that I love you. The Mediterranean delicate siren that flows around our ship with all its frothy lilies now takes me away from you but we shall meet again in the future when light will come carefully to open my eyes before the gleaming blue day that helps me live with your memory and then its islands will charge Athens, I know, isn’t far behind and they’ll stand and fight my sinful love for you, oh Paris, and they will wish me to forget how sweetly I gave you my soul not longing to meet anyone when I aimlessly saunter in your streets
Gratitude The sense of gratitude passing through me slowly reaches the forests that root in the wind days in tomorrow’s train stations we live in nameless streets by the riverbanks of every number the cosmos will forget all who loved it and it won’t know the number of stars each person hides in their heart forgotten in the old mistakes all lovers are holy and sinful Eros is a thirst for whom will be betrayed shining moment that suddenly arrives and vanishes in the whirl of eternity. And if the road is full of truths the inexplicable moment is still far away the dream dives into the void and writes about chancy destinations in this version of history they keep time and light like a legacy of nothing they inherit from generation to generation an untidiness of improvisation a vigilant attraction. Outside something like a forged spring and the forever illusion of keys that open the wide-open door.
Second Hour I move my brush toward the eastern field and the cows stop spinning their tails splashed in light brown although worm and eagle earn gratification in the nimble yawn of nostalgia of life in Chronos’ pendulum tender sparrow tackles two seeds in his beak and retreats to his brother in the bushes one teardrop in an irksome afternoon when even chewing a stick of gum embalms you with such pleasure you couldn’t think yourself more lucky as you breathe fresh air rising off seashore dusk always recurring as a faithful friend after a tough day’s work then starts the game of cynical Death evangelizing his fearsome enigma The dark wind blows as from the future and undresses a decaying reality concocted by hands of the few though the rose traverses past eyes of the girl who reflects at the redness of her lips shrugging her shoulders my loneliness in the path enmity grasps thin air and ponders the question while headmaster cinches the noose around an apostate’s muscled neck without concern for mercy carves emblems and insignia inked with blood crying out: who cares?
Summary Those who left early with their glance focused on the same spot: dead horses, bones, flags, tables, stones, a lonely tree up on the peak and the immovable oath. Evening liaisons, pseudonyms on cigarette packages, the discussion left by the cane fields and the old woman who yelled: passersby, fools, consumed by secret wounds, nails, teeth, my little moon, the dream and the chair; take care of the dead, she said, find a way to live their life. Don’t fall asleep and forget. History is but a continuance. The man by the front step reads the incomplete catalogue, the one with the killed shoulder, who died under the trees. Small animals gathered by the corner. One lonely boy, enchanted by the imaginative stars. Ah, the beautiful, I’ll shout, the brave, ah, the thoughtless. And the old woman under the stairs, with the big cauldron in the night.
TALE OF THE TEARLESS A colourful dream started in the imagination ~ Renan Once upon a time there was a rich man who had a son. Father and mother loved him; he went to school; he learned of everything that existed in the world
~ (Beginning of a gypsy fairy tale)
A fairy tale occupies the cave of my soul, a tale that is tough like lithos with strong words like lead; a fairy tale that crashes me I don’t know anymore, I don’t remember where I heard it first or was it I who experienced it once upon a time? Yet whether you’re a stone, roll down to the cave of my soul loudly and if you’re made of lead, melt in the fire of the gypsy.
D since it was a dark night and only the stars flickered I thought of an image beyond humans. The vase containing the sea was placed at the edge of the visible a few dark, undecorated Christmas trees stood on the sand silently; heavenly bodies screamed and shone in the freedom of lust. The air smelled of unfamiliar flowers and none of the lamps revealed any true or faulty present. Ah, yes, I said and pushed my inelegant sole on the atrophied grass, this the way they were before the stage of the cloud opened to the first act, with the first actor playing the first male role; this was the way before they decided to strangle the female babies before Erasmus replaced our diction before the first complain was heard about life on this earth this was the scene of existence before the play with many acts commenced.
Condemnation The beggar’s honest hand extending despair inexhaustible signalman momentary begging sigh sorrowful chirp of a bird that clipped its wings A beggar who stooped unending fortitude to raid fate’s slap that on the cheek he felt as if replacing his inglorious life with the unrealized dream life denied him
Ivan Nikolaevich, the second rate agent. Still, she wanted the director to know that she had been correct in her suspicions. “Da, da, yes, of course,” nodded the functionary, pawing through his desk drawer searching for something. The man’s an idiot, she thought. This is the quality of worker who stands guard over the country! Saints preserve us, as my old grandmother used to say. Finally, the man produced another form, this one on blue paper. “In order to use the official phone line, you must fill in this form.” “Phone him now!” Natasha raised her voice in hopes that the supervisor would hear her and look out his door. “I’m not filling in one more form!” The man’s expression did not change but this time he abandoned the new form, picked up the receiver and asked her for the number. After some dialling, waiting and dialling again, he announced that he could not get through. He replaced the receiver quietly. “The supervisor will attend to your complaint tomorrow,” he told her. Natasha struggled to control her breathing. “Tomorrow WILL BE TOO LATE. She’s passing through the line now; I can see her from here.” Indeed, Lona had already slipped through the passport control while they had been on the phone. The young man’s face creased in a troubled frown. “Very well, comrade. I will take the name of the tourist and her flight number and pass it on to the customs officials myself.” Now we’re getting somewhere, Natasha thought. “I’ll go with you,” she said aloud. She took a certain perverse pleasure in being in on the moment of discovery. Of course the poor fool Chopyk would be angry with her… “I’m sorry, comrade, that will not be possible,” the guard replied. “It is not permitted to pass through that door into the airport again. You must leave by the fire exit.” He gestured at a door on the far side of the room. “It is a regulation. Thank you and good day.” Natasha drew herself up to her full five feet, four inches, cast one more withering glare at the man, and stalked toward the fire exit and out of the lives of the tour group from Canada. “Documents, please.” Jennifer watched as Lona, standing in front of her, tensed at the command. She could feel her own apprehensiveness growing as she waited, her toes behind the yellow line. This first barrier marked Passport Control was a preview to the inspection room.