The sky is white.
I am afraid.
I feel tiny crocodiles
swimming in my veins.
My furious little mind
fills with greedy-eyed
mosquitos and insomniac children,
with noise and toil and
hurricanes of shame.
I feel the presence
of a murderous Czar.
The rain falls like knives,
like shadows boxing, like
a slow parade of undertakers.
The dead are all anonymous
and identical. Those once mighty
are now the breakfasts of maggots.
An endless geometry:
fate. insane with desire.
When I move,
the fog moves
with me.
I smile.
It's almost
what I wanted.
It's almost
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The rain falls like knives, like shadows boxing, like a slow parade of undertakers. You really have talent. I usually don't like poetry that is so dark but this isn't to be avoided, it's to be treasured. Fantastic.