I am disgusted from those days in Venice. The sky, them, death, them.

One single line of light: his body, the water, the study, me.

In all this: me, who, on the verge of the sea,

traverses life, traverses death, and am still upright; me, who, in the midst of a field,

open air, resists the wind, the current, the laminated sight.

Me, who could all but love.






Forms burn in love. It remains, choral, the flesh.





Predatory vulture of myself

I quiet

in the bright night

and dream

that there is nothing beyond the dream

that there is nothing which fits the dream


The rumour of time

in my bones

becomes silvery straw

It does not wait for anything

it runs away


As the enchanted bird

he kept going

taking out of his mouth

mute words








I am the air now

I am the wind

I am the rush of the water

I am the ground of the ship

I am the hidden thought,

I am the flesh, and the lust.

I am the despair and the silence.

I am the night and the dust.

I am the dawn of morning and the solitude of eve.

I am the forest, the tempest, the calm, am the dream.





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