The shadow of dawn grows
Before the threshold
The birds resort to strange places
Fear drives them to barracks
You hear only wings’ collision
Like migrants fleeing slaughter
It was a dark morning right from the start.
They reserve their seats in the morning
To smoke and drink coffee
As the words shine in their mouths
The tables are filled with
I daily see window’s injury
Illuminate the night
Like a lantern lighting the depths
Of human injury.
We weren’t heroes
We weren’t cowards
We were only ourselves
Playing dice with shooting stars
And sometimes hearing frog’s croaking
In a night whose remains began to die.
The Grave of Henry Barbusse
I lock the door and peek through
The hole of a storm
At the crowd.
I know after a while... the carnage will move
With all its details to my heart.
Always will your works be born
They won’t finish
Save in the madness of a lost wave
Or in a head torn to pieces
The aged beg for a passerby’s smile
Their faces are our mirrors
In the camber of life
Their days hanging in memory
Like a hump facing the desert’s bounty.
The Bells Won’t Ring
The storm hasn’t subsided tonight
Before my door
Its five enemies slammed its directions.
In churches’ pale light
I see monks dragging vehicles
Running for mountains
With pedigree horses in the wind
As if they’re back to Byzantium.
In this ancient night
The bells won’t ring after today
The storm won’t cease.
Despite the weather
And its abundant clarity
The prey’s smell still tickles my throat.
The Blessing of Funeral Ceremonies and Summers
The bones of last night
I taste now like carrion
The blessings of funerals’ secret
In particular their delicious meals.
The summer about to leave us
Looks like that bird
Whose head was severed on a rock’s edge.
The parting we experienced in love
Was that of enemies and fighters.
I took solitude as destiny
Daily we compete in the garden
“I was created but genial”.