Poets

I, who traced by car the banks of the Neretva, who exhausted on bicycle the steaming streets of Cophehnague. I who measured with my own arms the holes of Sarajevo, who crossed, in the driver's seat, the border of Slovenia

We are making a detailed inventory, like the herbarium of an unforeseeable constellation. First are the lilies, adornment of splattered stars;

The entire sky is squatting. An intransitive thirst. To speak in a foreign tongue is like dressing in borrowed clothing.