Bedridden, marshy colors words crawl like lizards amid papers and mouths — so much disgust for beauty that pooled in its watery shape and we constantly find an excuse not to leave anything behind. The company of naked, authentic things is so bad.
Nude Here in the untidiness of the room between the dusty books and the old people’s portraits between the yes and the no of so many shadows one band of motionless light here in this position where you undressed one night
Poll Star To let myself be taken by the love of the compass myth of day was stitched onto the sky by the joyous crucifiers serpents and beasts shed their height and the black bad attire of earth and stone when Dream wakes up and the silent fields open wide to the speech of leaves
I defined my steps next to the footprints of philosophers and craftsmen, next to ancient priests and priestesses and I, the loner, guarded wholeness during the moonlit nights and dark days of my people expecting their reward on a future day I stood like a guard against mediocrity against banality, the second-class attitude, and I defended the right of my people, and I declared I have been my people’s landmark in the immenseness of my life where borders don’t exist and only the eternal ancient beauty stands I, the loner, alone shall recant ancient oracles, trying to guide and console my sorrowful kin from the Eastern evil that came to our lands which demanded blind obedience and rewarded the pious with the afterlife riches, in today’s modern days when with a click of a mouse, one speaks to someone on the other side of the galaxy mediocrity reigned supreme