it rains with eyes without eyelids
slithering through stuck windows
between men left thoughtless
without remembering the dead
never dressing in their Sunday clothes
feeling no more lavender scent
only round eyes gathered in heaps
wide open eyeballs in sub-urban polar nights
the children and the old and the saint relics
stay right like moist matches
in forgotten boxes in locked drawers
in pantries without electricity circuits
the rain found them beyond any wall
no one was left to care about darkness
a book opened at once
the window opens widely
magic wheels of colors turn again
inside child’s eyes round forest skirts
the rain stopped tuning
its harp with knotted strings
hidden between rambling clouds
lady Vivien’s story dripped in the lake
dreams are growing on the rainbow’s stem
another spring day hurts tree cores
new buds jump out from steely branches
maiden’s heart clings to lime tree leaves
pierced with candy sugar light
her silvery long hair entangled among willows
is swept by winds into the wild mint field
whispers gather in dandelion seeds
melting on top of wet black berries
near the house corners
covered with moss
under the old oak
grass colors fade slowly
brown and yellow butterflies fall
over a closed story book
entranced for ever
House snakes have disappeared from the rotten and darkened corn shed. A few dead embers lie near the stove, covered in cinders. On the small windowsill someone forgot a mouse trap. Under the stable’s rafters cobwebs hang heavy catching swallow nest crumbs. The well’s wheel got stuck, silence slithers in the whitewashed wall crevices. At a far distance blue trains sizzle, the river’s waters are swift and murky.
I should better rest in the garden, feeling the earth’s sap dragging me down, hearing old men sharpening their scythes. In those times grasses grew tall and upright. Clouds begin to gather over me, gliding on my back spine. I think it’s going to be a storm, like it was before and always.
Many waters flew down in a row.
I couldn’t see my traces anymore:
barefoot child footprints, hoofs, wagon wheels
piling up like volcano cinders drifting in the wind.
People had a shrill voice,
a kind of old knife blade stuck in dry earth,
they were coming home with dust in their collars,
the moon’s craters were no more visible.
I began to drink water only from a spring source
carrying it at sunset in a cold pitcher
its shadow was trembling as I walked by
along with my too long shadow,
like two brotherly waves.
For a time I stood close to the ground,
a butterfly wing on a broken earthenware,
feeling my heart growing bigger,
its walls withdrawing inside it,
a bulldozer overturning the rubble.
I was hardly breathing,
compressed by demolished bricks
detached from their foundation.
Like a well without chains
I couldn’t cry anymore,
all my tears were lost.
Around rooster’s wake up
two gray trains collided,
the passengers forgotten on a long list
in the church service
dreams’ barrier broke below them.
It was raining again.
It’s warm in September
and the air is rancid,
after so many days of drought
hot clouds roll in the sky’s marrow
Tiredness bites the tendons,
I’m hardly running,
a butterfly rests on my front wrinkles
and there are still cobwebs
amongst the vines
vibrating before being torn
with a shard of smile
In the red eye corner
I’m painting a teardrop
so I can cry beneath the mask.
I put on my gray raincoat,
tightening the laces,
gusts of wind cut my arms
with a young forest hum,
they weigh rootless on my chest,
the air whimpers like a baby
and it starts raining