Some Distresses at the Galactic Swan’s Allurement…

Come to me, vowel-swan, so I can lie to you – I am a Member of Parliament,

I work and catnap as much as possible in the People’s House, among supreme lies… !

 

Come to me, consonant-swan, so I can lie to you – I dwell among the archaeological sites

at Sarmizegetusa, I discover the genuine history… !

 

Come to me, hiatus-swan, so I can lie to you –

I am the tomb of number 1 star… !

 

Come to me, suffixoid-swan, so I can lie to you –

I am the venomous husband of the king cobra… !

 

Come to me, prefixoid-swan, so I can lie to you – I am the emperor of  submersion,

the frog-voivode, the king of Atlantises, the heron-duke… !

 

Come to me, root-swan, so I can lie to you –

I am photon’s ground, the holder of the sun-information… !

 

Come to me, noun-swan, so I can lie to you –

I am the morphology of darkness like the sickle-eyes of the dancing owls… !

 

Come to me, verb-swan, so I can courteously lie to you –

I am the deed on the wondrous tray of the Biblical crimes… !

 

Come to me, punctuation mark-swan, so I can lie to you soundly, as vast as history,

I am merely the golden cracked pot from which the clay’s chiefs have drunk the light in… !

 

Come to me, orthographic rule-swan, so I can lie to you –

I am but the sky-papyrus, the coveter on the first Sunday after the Genesis… !

 

The fangs of distress burn in your down snowing over the incandescent volcano,

ready to constellate a ruby galaxy-bed for me… !

 

The Earth Viewed like a Cabbage

(Holopoem)

The multiple memory resembles Thy hand, Father Almighty,

five-comet-fingered – the episodic finger, the semantic finger,

the procedural finger, the perceptive finger, the professional finger… !

Thank you, Gracious Lord, for suffering me

astride

the Sun’s slumberous protuberance

just at Thy right hand… !

From here I behold the Earth

and pick it out, oh Lord, between gushes of breath,

for the fleetingness of thought germination,

for the swoosh of the neuron oceans…

 

God Almighty, how deep Thou breathe

every seventy million years, burgeoning, leafing out,

blossoming, yielding fruit, withering, coated

in copper, gold, silver, in each and all… !

 

Good Lord ! At a closer look,

the Earth looks like a bouffant cabbage,

its magnetic root thrust deep

into the base of my protuberance,

its peripheral leaves blown by the solar wind,

its white, yellowish, red and black flea-people,

its limaxes repudiated by their shells,

its mole crickets, carp, egrets,

between the middle leaves of its bald head,

which hardens, grows ripe

under the sublime rays, gnawed by white butterflies –

their sawdust pouring

on the cabbage-Earth crown,

scorching here and there, ripening elsewhere…

 

Great Lord, there’s so much teeming

among the cabbage-Earth leaves, such sickening death

instantly suppurating from each birth… !

The bustling leaves, the panic aroused

by the deafening wind,

by ravines gaping between beings… !

Think, Holy Father, rethink Thyself

in the cabbage-Earth leaves… !

Since the dewdrop tumbling along its veins, at daybreak,

signifies a cataclysm,

an avalanche,

ravaging a valley

or every mountain sight,

since each trembling leaf means

a star-obliterating,

abyss-sowing earthquake…

You’d better arrest for a twinkling,

Our Father, you’d better rethink

the genuine, righteous Light,

even if only for the cabbage-Earth… !

 

Heavenly Father, what are these flying saucers,

these disks of savage thinking looking for on the cabbage-Earth… ?

Heedful of the stones’ circumference, I notice

some of them are pregnant

after a great many floods,

under the ever-wilting rainbow…

I know, it’s mandatory to see through the eyes of the early people,

at the dawn of history, but…

 

 

English version by Gabriela PACHIA