The rainy days,
the smell of wet leather,
the rustic ornaments of your desire,
pale, pallid and abstract,
you stand before me,
you do not speak a single word.
I let the silence build a wall between us,
my thoughts are rough and inadequate,
they fumble at the seams,
yours like a tiny swallow chirping,
falling, cold and absolute.
Cast out of its nest,
it tries to fight the vultures.
It escapes beneath
the shallow beech logs.
I try to look away when it is slaughtered.
The darkness of midday hovers above us,
as I try to close the metallic gate behind me.
You stay behind,
a thousand wasps swarm inside your guts.
I melt into one with the graveyards,
chimneys and rooftops.
Just a pair of muddy footprints
filled with water lilies glowing in the dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem