The temptation of the real
I have not ever been angry with apples
that they are apples, with leaves that they are leaves,
with shadow that it is shadow, with birds that they are birds.
But the apples, the leaves, the shadows, the birds
suddenly became angry with me.
Here I am condemned for unknowing,
for boredom, for anxiety,
Sentences written in the language of pips.
Accusing acts sealed
with entrails of birds,
grey penitence coolly, decided to me.
I stand, with the uncovered head,
I try to decipher that that it was deserved by me
and I cannot, I cannot decipher
and in this state of mind, it itself
becomes angry with me
and it condemns me, indecipherably,
to a waiting perpetual,
to a strain of the meanings in themselves,
until they take the shape of the apples, the leaves,
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