English

 

 

 THE NIGHT IS PREGNANT

 

 They   

 guards of a familiar earth

dismissing the familiarity of soil

a sky where kites get caught in electric wires.

In our hands    and in our hands

they pass from a street

where ins explode

they call both purple and black

they either die or reawake

they are so-called joking

 

But what happens if this game bothers me

will this poem end?

or shall I drop new ranunculi in the vase?

I shall dream of a beyond-world Africa

I shall go down to this dark’s depth

once again, to see another wolf

I shall enjoy my murder

Yes, I shall love him too

 

I will leave these balloons

so colour diffuses everywhere

we will disappear in our own beauty

but this poem still won’t end

pen will

so does paper

I have prepared myself for what’s happening

we always knew that

they never existed

never passed from that street

 

we were still lost in the rose-scented air

were getting lost in the night

getting lost in the blue

we were saying       

‘this is enough

wherever this beauty leads us

just let it happen’

 

The street was aching

even the city was aching

it was just before we departed

how strange it was

 

Something should be said

something hasn’t been said

the night bird stood still       — that sky!

 

But light forgives

light of trees

expects us to gently surrender

and says:

 

‘Don’t disintegrate      don’t!

remember:

The night is pregnant’*

 

*Mevlana Rumi

 

 

 

THE UNIVERSAL GARDEN

 

I    Prehistory

 

Worldly and simple

a green heat leaking through heart gaps

an evaporating image  

         where two roses collide       their elegance

     (a dream)

 

 

Yes  a rose garden

a roofless first-home

it teaches to fail first

with the pre-linguistic compassion of a first-mother

and the guidance of a first-father

it teaches how to get lost

    (Why is getting lost necessary?)

 

A sudden first-animal's smile happens

                             a soul retrieving true colours

                You can destroy an image only with another image

       he says            in an unknown language:

                but still            the counterpart survives       

                                                and loves to surprise

 

a truth purifies itself with another truth

here             there is no place for a lie

                                 So when do we begin?

                not yet             not yet

 

 

 

II    Present time

 

 

An accidentally blessed isolated mouth

of a lover             eats a rose every breaking dawn

Or else is it the rose being blessed? 

A rose ...

           is the most silent thing ever

it blinks with a secret innocence 

 

in some lifetimes        the petals crumble away in rough hands

even then it survives as immaculate ghost

this is what happens here on earth

 

 

  

III     Eternity

 

 Dying feels good