It left his skin on a stone
and turned into stone. A viper.
It grunted from rifle shots
...
He doesn't come the way you thought
from rose-coloured glaciers
with a dead stag in his arms.
...
Pastel
There the hungry wolf
with his teeth
has ripped out the hot entrails.
There the fugitive convict
stone by stone
has dug his grave.
There the naked dead
on a table of their bones
have chopped up the moon.
There the rutting stags,
their antlers entangled,
have turned into skeletons.
There on hard arid ground
sorcerers have woven
a wedding feast banner from their veins.
The groom is the wind,
the bride is the mist.
Amazingly in their cradle
(a handful of earth and hope)
a nameless flower opens.
Let's go and name it:
let it be called Dream.