REPORT ON HUNGER Comments

Hunger dwells in me. And everyone tells me so.
It is not fear nor is it doubt
it is just an intact rhythm that doesn't touch the shore with salt.
It is just hunger, perhaps a light testament
or that insistence on destroying the house
and renewing the stone in dreams.

Little I remember of myself at this time - the scatterbrained,
the one who in the open is just a bunch of grass,
a naked word smelling of other lands
and looking with a stranger's face at all the borrowed joys.

Hunger comes with the same randomness and identical foreboding.
Rain comes under the skin
and few things recall an old love
that does not matter anymore.

It is hunger. And everyone tells me so.
It is not the light testament nor the sadness of nights.
It is not poetry
nor the music time conveys.

A little hunger
and the tiredness of filling up the shelves of the absent ones.
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