The cloud of time covers the horizon.
It's me, I come at the end without eyes
as the condemned Oedipus
and I yearning the shelter of the atheistic monks
who have no history and live in the road.
I have crossed in seconds sexual territories
- small logos hidden by gods -
So now, I am hanging in days like over an assembly line
where it finishes both the product and life
while I listening to silence and I see in white.
What I write are leaves and fruits with no time,
but my memories shall return to the tree of blankness
when I will cross the lonely thought
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem