Poor little insect
finding his way back home in the maze of
so many detours,
curling up to the land of light
in a little tilting lantern.
Maybe this puzzle is already solved,
this deadlock is already over,
maybe it was over
before its journey even has begun.
Maybe death is the real home,
who knows,
only if this buzzing torment in my head,
that goes on and on,
would ever stop,
only if this cleft in the body of sound
would ever mend!
-
(once I heard the universe was cracking
in a donkey’s mating moan in Cypress.
Once I saw it darned again
on the beak of two knitting needles
of two doves kissing all daylong.)
-
These tiny sound stings,
fonts of venom, pushing forward
searching for a reason to jet out,
constantly drilling in the walls of silence,
like termites in the wood
like the rhythm of woodpeckers' pecks
knocking on my skull.
Poor little bug,
he is making his death known,
whether on the window or in the lamp,
this
little symmetrical
insignificant wasp:
(Who really did make thee?
"Did he who made the butterfly make thee?"
Did who made thee also made me?
Is my torments thee? )*
Suddenly the bitter taste of spite burst in my throat, shouting:
O please help me for I am lost,
even knowing it in my guts,
that always the way out coincides
with the way to the light,
but this time
I know, out, is nothing but death,
so:
(is death my home?
is death thy home,
like fire
that fumigates like my lusts,
when I am lost?
like the scent of damp soil
in this basement tomb?
like the shoots of roses,
splashing splendour
on the canvas,
where the wounds burst in blood,
where
the limbs are ended?
so
Did thee make beauty,
out of tormenting me?)*
These red roses look blood thirsty
with those fomented flames,
with those unsheathed thorns!
( is death home?)
--
(* ) using the flow of : "Did he who made the lamb make thee?" from "The Tiger" _ by William Blake, to assert a point.
