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 piece.

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.