A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.
You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss
You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows
Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city
Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games
Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences
Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing
The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.
You will go blind soon I think
Like the dead that squint
Near strong light
The victors at the end of all suns
Who brought forth the octopuses on the shores
With a finger on the lip
The dead are hungry on flame
Joy is their power
By the vermilion of shame
Each new morning is provoked.
The sign of shame before the living
Is achieved by watching:
Roams the eye oblique onto the elbow
And the sharp taste of the living.
Tell me what I merely remember
And what haunts me in the dream to remember
Uncertain is the speech
The hush curses it.
You get the sun used to dieing
On the place where I dissolved
Speaking and hushing,
I hear only that which
With barking silence.
Who extolled the dead
Ash or fire?
Do I hear a voice?
Or is it just the falling of the leaves?
I no longer hear you
Nor is my throat strained by vessels.
So have the dead decided
With tongue under the throat
towards the twisted death of the living.
time is precious
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