Wednesday, 26 February 2020

In dividio


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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