Because there is no comparison, I want to be with you,
because there is no reason but desire, and no other way
to tell you than by clumsy means of my endearment,
while I’m trying to acquire more than is for me to have,
because you know this and keep silent. Because of that. I live,
comparing drifting, changing clouds with faces and with you.


This cosyness is our new haven now,
behind closed doors we do not know the world,
we do not need to know, we have the dusk,
we feel the warmth of earth and sense the musk
and let the night begin with violins
and candles, shadows dancing on the wall.
As this is all. This is our haven now.


Waiting for a thunderstorm
in the hot bedroom
the lazy sticky lovemaking
went on all evening.

Inside the lamp above the bed,
until it was darkened,
they must have tried out
every position using
their wings and every leg
and I am certain they smoked
a cigarette afterwards.
It could have been
a neighbour though.

Please let it pour all night.
Please let the flies stop gloating
from the ceiling.

Unsettling times, you say,
and your shoulders are
older now, you walk uncertain,
your eyes red when you look East,
the sun coming up dripping in blood,
now obituaries are the main
inhabitants of the paper,
and all the names are hammering
in a hail of sorrow,
unsettling is the time.

The choir sings a language I don’t know,
the pain of the words go through my spine;
for whom they sing is not clear.

Sadness fills the trembling Summer air.
They disappear leaving silence
and a breeze of horrible thought.

Watching butterflies drop out of the sky
I wonder where they come from, the white ones,
appearing by the dozens, bewildered,
surprised of their own fate, these newcomers
to the already tired flowers
that know better than to rejoice.
How long, we think, how long will they last.


We do not live in tunnels;
we let them pass through us,
fast, hurried, we keep our eyes closed,
holding our breath for this part of the journey,
waiting for the light.

Some tunnels are longer than others,
some seem to never end, depending
on the size of the mountain above us.
Some tunnels stay inside us,
their hollow cold always on the move.


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