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
I fell asleep on the narrow bench,
a scent of rotten wood surrounds me
like a placenta,
sunlight descends through window bars
directly in my dream
where sledges vanish afar.
The compact ball of my body
wraps up the past
like Ariadne’s thread.
I roll over,
lost in time traveler,
the compass rose points
to the North of music,
ocean herbs vibrate in the depths.
One song ends slowly
in the leaves melted by light,
seconds are tuned once again,
fresh inside vegetal hourglasses.
And I must awake like a child
among tender blades of grass.