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MY BREATH

In my deepest dreams, the earth cries blood Stars smile in my eyes When people come to me with multi-colored questions I answer go to Socrates The past
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MUMMIFIED CHILD

Centuries later they will find when of a society which has consumed itself only the remains will be left of the small Pharaoh inside a broken refrigerator, buried
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10th February

Forest, a wild hare, a deer sticks its head up, in the shadow meditates a deer, acorns become brown, and between the fingers, slips dark time. * A
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Meeting poets

Meeting poets I am disconcerted sometimes by the colour of their socks the suspicion of a wig the wasp in the voice and an air, sometimes, of dankness.
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MORNING STAR

Oh flower of Time Paul Celan The morning star befuddled by dark sources reflects for a moment in the morning’s red then disappears with the faded dreams of
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Citizen Cane

Citizen Cane Long was every day and the snow the light of my soft sky and the cold the blood of my ardent skin and the game the
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The Violin of the Bushman

The Violin of the Bushman Weak is resonance of the sound a one stringed bent stick on an empty ostrich egg.  Not an instrument for greater glory of whoever. Nobody
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Chairs

Chairs For a long time I sat between chairs till I was tired of It That day I decided to put another chair between the chairs For one
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Those Bloody Years

Those bloody years I could sing to you about distant lands, about attractive anecdotes, about miracles, about multicolored birds, about the squirrels which ate out of my hand
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