The infertile
seasons no longer have clothes to receive the new spring, the cold has closed
the doors of their hearts, their joints are groaning, what immortality does the
insolent human eyes know. It is better for history to ask the sidewalks for
goods that were thrown by the hail to the side of an old man.
The
world is a hungry sun. All he is good at is lighting the fuse, so the sea will
drown in tears. Yes, the torrent still carries that great meaning, although I
became convinced that myth can live in sick homes like a modern vehicle.
No,
you cannot imagine the strangeness of the souls that stumble on the road. The
distance captures the place, and as you can see, this person has nothing but
pale tales. I am not surprised by all that coldness in the faces of things. My
organs split like grains of rice, they hide behind the wide smile of the night,
they stretch like illusions in the fields, they are attractive and overflowing,
they are dazzling.
In
that wide space, which I do not forget, there is not left for man a boat that
can accommodate children coming out of the Euphrates, their brown foreheads, on
which the river has drawn dunes of fine sand, I remember them properly.
It is not difficult for a person to descend from the sky, and it is not difficult for him to stand like an old tree waiting for joy and death. The sounds of the night thicken the arteries of man, so shame does not flow into his blood. Here I see the shadow multiplying in the place, bloodying the brow of the sublime light, so the galaxy is flooded with the gnostic.
