English

 

 

LETTER TO A FISHERMAN

 

 

There was

only before afternoon

when the moon and the winds came together

on a diligent pavement

to meet the frank obscurity

inside the flat.

 

One touch:

the catcher, they say, along the semi decent song,

the riot around glasses,

one voice against them all

to greet the clear fright indoors.

 

Ask me,

my Friend,

about the field around the fisherman’s sky.

Tell me the rhyme of never-ending infatuation for land

while the coastline laugh closes our eyes

through the village.

 

There was

only that day before afternoon,

when the moon and the winds came together

one voice against them all

to lock the later cityscape

above.

 

 

DRUMS, MY WISH

 

 

 

Drums -

my wishes

sailing along the blue distress of light

within the master skills performance,

securely vague and distant souls,

music on step mechanism.

 

Drums -

my wish to command patterns

climbing up through spiral convictions

when night resumes in black coffee.

 

Drums -

the rhythm of distance

beyond the wish of return,

one more solar day, 24 hours of glorious time

to neglect or destroy

the final beat.

 

From where you are now,

drums are sailing wishes

to us:

 

hold on to the coastline,

dream and hope

for the melody

of auburn.