Individual.
In dividio. Indivisible.
How
much have I tryed to give
to
earn from your
indivisible
radiance?
I
see a slender tower
of
a distant church
partially
hidden by trees.
It’s
a tall spruce.
I
walk, a yellow garbage bin in my hand
to
the back of the plot of my country house,
where
deer and village dogs
look
for bread and fish scraps,
rotten
bananas,
exotics
from overseas,
ashes
and diamonds.
Through
the years
I
tryed to provide you
with
best pieces of myself,
never
asking
if
you prefer bread of fish scraps,
poetry
or earrings,
dinners
or a shoulder rub.
Individual.
In dividio. Indivisible.
Somewhere
there’s a beautiful apple,
but
those who bite on it
are
just random worms.
I
put the yellow bin
on
the concrete cover of the well.
Now
empty, it is blowns away
overwhelmed
by the breath of the world.
The
lake across the street
is
trying to break out of itself,
to
grow into a sea.
The
lake resembles me today –
defiance
in it’s gray blood.
Individual.
In dividio. Indivisible.
Constantly
distressed to find peace.
And
so
it’s
impossible to light bonfires
in
the windows of strangers.
And
so
it’s
not possible to earn
windless
years.
Only
then
when
you come as knife
against
my scales,
against
my dry fish skin,
a
piece of my is released
on
your salty tongue.
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