The Spring of the Good-for-nothing

I’m searching for my feet ― in the newly dressed pyjamas

with long legs ― the way missing miners are searched for ― in

the collapsed mine

shafts and drifts

I shall never again stride anywhere ― not even

to the place where the snowflakes take wing

to ward off the fiery heat of the sun

I’ll rest in the unfathomable depths of the earth ― to count His kissed

toes ― Almighty God : it’s dark and agreeable

everything is clipped well-established and sacramentally oiled ― there swarm

the kings of the rats ― of the crossword puzzles and

of the inhumane kind

ideologies edaciously stack

sticky and squalid ― on cabbages ― like

the white worms ― fallen from

the storks’ air

dysentery ― and I scream: oh

cabbages ― why don’t you pull off ― unfasten your brassieres

of overlapping white and

red leaves ― as if in front

of the Holy Magi ― when you perform

the adoration of the hyaenas ?

everything has become abstruse ― mysterious and

almost inscrutable ― after

all my heart’s suns ― have estranged

from me

neither do the late birds of my thoughts whirl

above me ― nor are the beingness

questions being asked any more ― from

any star

the poplars’ spires have turned stone-still ― from an inclement and

embrangled winter ― nobody shows up on the sky’s

ploughland ― to finger and

seize

some ears of moon

everything around is vacuous like in a tuberculosis

hospital –― it’s more glacial than in

the morgue drawer refrigerators

from behind the mountains ― there can be heard ― smothered and

solemn ― the pipe organs of death : a sign of solidarity

with the befogging fright ― from fate’s rolled up

sleeves

I go sledding down the hill of ideas ― I glide over the heads

of the world’s greatest

philosophies ― like an unkindness of

apocalyptic ravens : nothing seems to fit into

the door locks any longer ― nothing flutters any longer ― behind

the departed

it feels much later than during the last

imperial battle ― crouching is even more unavailing

than hatching the eggs

in a hat ― may it be God’s miraculous

skylarking hat

everything is mystical ― the unseen no longer smells

of hatching : nature and my thread occult themselves ― towards

wisdom and enlightenment ― though ever closer to

bereavement

English version by Gabriela PACHIA