Moon
Moon moon The moon
yellow round glass in the middle of spring night Behind it
faces of the night shadows gather
and see you – you don’t see them They own you
Here are all the unknowns: unknown pacified
in the silent admission that they shall not be known
calm silent and pale as if known and left behind

Childish
In the little harbor the sea copies
the leaves and the clouds and birds
beautifully carefully and like calligraphy –
from time to time the wind hastily underlines her
mistakes with some thick light blue lines
But the one who writes all day long staring at the sea
Makes no mistakes – my embittered serenity –
and speechless he always yearns for love
to underline his heart – the only mistake

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…and the green pastures were faraway
along with the flowering villages
and when each quietened down
in the embrace of the other,
from the groan of the camel
to the prayer of the muezzin,
when everything was left behind,
the thin skinned ascetic and
the slow passing of the caravan
that left behind a sweet
lengthened harmony and
the echo of colours and shadows
of female travellers with
undulating breasts, half covered
women with black eyes and
servants who followed helped by
their canes, tireless women
and the patriarch life that each
evening turned more holy and
blissful of which voyagers
sang with their tired voices.
And when he was left without
the company of passing wild
horses chased by the simoon
in the sunlit paths, the
Tearless felt a strange pain in
his viscera, the Ghost of thirst
that tyrannized him.

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It Was a Beautiful Night
The beautiful night reflected in your eyes
and in your songs, that sweet night
in your old songs
night full of stars, exotic night.
The only love in your loneliness
so beautiful so evocative
became passion in your heart
in the loneliness of your heart.
Ah, your old songs which sobbed
ineffably sweet
modestly hid they talked of it.
Ah, your old songs sad
like secrets of love
like sad silent flowers.

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Pendulum
Soft murmur pendulating
between the tip of the last leaf and
the brown earth, ambivalent desire
for a fall or stand against October’s
hoarfrost and the insatiable yearning
for Death in the heart
of autumnal chiaroscuro
cloud witnessing the sequence
between ambivalence and fate
say,
let the cicada’s exoskeleton
on the olive tree trunk
ready to be blown away like
most leftover cadavers chanting
a hymn or Gloria substituting
elegy sung by the mother of the dead poet
what one can say about the unheard
whistling out of her perfectly
contoured lips and
what one can say about his graceful
ride on top of golden mares and
what one can say about Eros
standing firmly between the lips
of the Kore and the blushing breeze
when the poet throws his love
to the four corners of the Earth, thus defining
his borders which Death cannot defile?
Just frost is left and the shock
of rose petals waking up to November’s
thirst for their blood
say,
make haste to the fireplace and
let winter write notes about darkness
April always returns triumphant

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