Contemplation, crises of time
and contemplation again.
If you wake up
look where it can get to.
Suddenly the eye becomes empty inside
like a tunnel, the look
becomes one with you.
Look where the look
can get to if it wakes up:
Suddenly it becomes empty just like
a tube of lead through which
only the blue travels.
Look where the waken blue
can get to:
Suddenly it becomes empty inside
like an artery without blood
through which the running sceneries of sleep
II Crisis of time
Oh, short sadness, greenish insect,
you, gentle eggs living a core of broken
meteor; and of my covered palms
to revive a completely other scenery.
The room shed itself through windows
and I cannot keep it through the opened eyes.
War of blue angels, with shocked spheres,
it happens to me into irises.
I mix up myself with the objects to blood,
to stop them from starting
but they strike the frames and shed further
to an other system.
Oh, short sadness, it remains
round about a sphere of void!
I stay in its centre, and one by one
the eyes in forehead, in temple, in fingers
are opening to me.
Suddenly the air roars…
It is shaking up its birds on my back
and they are thrusting me themselves in my shoulders, in my backbone,
are occupying everything and they just don no have where to stay.
In the back of the big birds
the others thrust themselves.
Flying ropes crawl them,
I just cannot stand upright
but knocked down, over fluorescent stones,
I am holding myself with my arms from the pillar of a bridge
bent upon non-existent waters.
River of thrusting birds
with the beaks one into other they are stirring up,
from my back they are overflowing
through an un-darken frozen sea.
River of dying birds
on which the barbarians, always migrating to northern and
IV Crise of time
As if there it would break a tomb
and it would flow on the river
all its mystery…
it, the look, keeps ourselves
fructified at one of its ends.
It sucks from us as much as it can,
seeming to show us
the angels of trees and of
the others sceneries.
The trees see us,
and not we them.
As if there it would break a leaf
and it would flow from it
a brook of green eyes.
We are fructified. We hang
of an end of a look
which sucks us.
Flushing there was showed a world
fasten even than the time of the letter A.
I knew only that: that it exists,
although the sight behind the leaves does not even see it.
I was relapsing into the state of human being
so fast that I was hitting myself
of my only body, painfully
quite wondering myself that I have it.
I lengthened my soul to one side and to another,
to fill my tubes of arms with it.
The same way, the globe over the shoulders
and the other appearances the same.
This way I strained myself to remember
the world which I flushing understood,
and which punished me throwing me into this body
But I could not remember a thing.
Just that – that I touched
the Something-else , the Somebody-else, the Somewhere-else
which, knowing me, rejected me.
Gravity of my heart
the whole meanings calling them back,
always back. Even you,
slave of magnets, you, thought.
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