`

BIOGRAPHY III

More secrets are hidden in my existence
for example the buzzing of bees
the magnificent babbling of the waters
the glow of nocturnal insects

All these are my body and I feel them
like I feel my fingers and my lips
― but who is
this little humpbacked dwarf reading
in the locked basement of my soul
with a pale candle of waning memory
mysterious documents of previous owners?

`

*

TIME OF THINGS

And as it slowly gets dark in the empty house
in the mirrors the sun sets
in silent and distant landscapes
immersed forever in the dusk

At night the full moon travels
against a background of old portraits
lighting the white sockets of eyes
which look towards their past.

But come dawn a red beetle
sets fire to the inflammable curtains
as invisible hands are playing the piano
hardly touching the keys

But sometimes it happens that matter lightens
and waves come into the house
or deep olive groves suddenly emerge
or persons once lost now return

`

*

PSYCHOGENESIS

At night do I see things
At night do I resort to miracles

What the dewy balm relieves
the sin of my existence

and what is tempered
by the outflow of tears
or the tumultuous concern in my chest

Oh, in the day the wounds gape
betrayalʼs silver pieces echo
Iʼm overwhelmed by grief and dust

But at night the sources open
the moments deepen like orchards
sadness turns into light
the mind a tree
babbling waters the joyless years

At night
when the bodies fall silent
and the soulsʼ music issues forth

`

*

STROLLER ON THE BEACH

I find happenings deafening
formalities tiresome
all the work unnecessary and time-consuming
And if at times I too end up
a victim of fatal connections
I nevertheless keep my distances
as tokens of my innocence
Thatʼs why I avoid
crowds
and prefer empty beaches
a staunch friend and mindful of the waves
a faithful listener
of horizons
Thatʼs why I avoid
conversing even with myself
I want to hear heavenly whispers
I want to hear crackling
beyond graves

So switch off those spotlights
donʼt disperse me
in your uproar
let me listen to precipices
let me caress
my dead

`

*

AND DONʼT ASK WHY IʼM SAD

Itʼs because behind your silence travel
caravans
of forgotten people

Itʼs because in your eyes move
shadows of the dead
images of loved ones

Itʼs because you resemble a journey to the infinite
Itʼs because you bring to light other roads

Itʼs because you shut
the trapdoors
and arise in a new miracle

Itʼs because I keep awake in your glow
as if believing that
I still exist

Itʼs because I owe you a lot of sky
and Iʼve nothing more than a bit of earth

`

*

THE MIRROR

Alone
in the low-lit room
not knowing what Iʼm after
I look at
the huge paintings round me
portraits
of dead children
and gloomy landscapes
of places unknown or
forgotten

Finally I catch sight of
the deep mirror
a huge painting next to the others
and in it
my childhood
self
in the middle of a boundless desert

Holding a censer and a candle

`

*

WHAT WE NEVER LEARNT ABOUT DOGS

Dogs have their own fate
they worship the face of their own god
they scan their own sky
they have their own way of defining men
They maintain memory
of the flood
the thrill for an unknown homeland
they search the forest under the city
they want to breathe their last in other places
Sometimes in dogsʼ sleep
mourn the wolves
fear stirs its heavy branches
snake-like hunger hisses its fury
At the far end they hear the old wailing
isolationʼs woeful call out
they bite the invisible chain
red light strikes them blind

They remember flames and
uprooting

The wild beast wakens in them
and cries

`

*

THE THIRD PHASE

In the first phase they come unsuspecting
They enjoy life
music, love, nature
that pure pleasure of being

But in the second phase something changes
Around them the scenes become somewhat misty
Thereʼs a bitter flavour of decadence on their lips
A strange shiver runs through them
as though threatened by something
They feel the world less familiar

Finally in the third phase supervenes
the magic inevitable. Music
flows from the depth of their soul
They feel they are losing their weight material
Their thought empties, their will
is stilled like a frozen lake
The indefinable attracts them
They are called upon by “beyond memory”
They follow a secret hum
And come down the stairs
silent

`

*

PHOTOGRAPH

Spring, of course, resplendent weather
As if provoking fate and Hades
A lush garden all round
― dance of luxuriant vegetation ―
and right in the middle a well
mother sitting on its mouth
looking at herself in the water
a little distant… a little sad…
Next to her father in his white suit
smiling as always

He beckons me to approach and come into

the light of a day still to set

`

*

THE UNEXPECTED WOMAN

But
who are you who surprises
― with such glitter, such music ―
the gloomy realm of my silence?
Who inrushes suddenly, a flood of light,
into these peaceful penumbras where
for ages now I maintain
my few anaemic memories?
With such dazzling beauty? With such
a deafening presence?
What does your figure recall to my look?
What heaven? What distant homeland?
And that bright smile of yours
― like sudden lightning against a black background ―
what impossibility does it insinuate and what
shores beyond time does it predict?

On the edge of a cliff you wait for me
and with a gentle smile you motion me
to trust imaginary wings;
to dare trapped flights

`

*

THE KNOCKER

In the end
I knock on the door
yearning
for a friendly look
a warm handshake

But
no one comes to open

And whoʼs to come and what
is he to open?

Behind the knocker thereʼs
no door
no inhabited house
exists

The knocker
hovers
in space

to no purpose
without aim
like a scarecrow in a burnt garden

It has nothing in store anymore
It promises nothing to the stranger

`

*

THE ONLY JUST MUSIC

Donʼt be surprised if I resent
following your steps, Memory
I know truth. To what avail
your constantly returning me to it?
Whatʼs the purpose of the ruinsʼ dance?
Of reliving all those separations?
The disinterment of interred time?

Hush… hush… the soul is sleeping
Donʼt wake it up… itʼs tired of hoping
Huddled up in itself
it has resigned to the only just music

emitted by the sense of vanity

`

*

WORKING HOURS

Nevertheless you must admit
that the hour has now advanced
that you should close the shop
and if
time is not yet up
if thereʼs still a few working hours left
well, why keep on waiting
when all goods have been purchased
thereʼs less traffic in the streets
no friend is likely to visit you
― where have they all gone? How did friends vanish? ―
what more can you do in this empty place
all alone and unmoving, a tableau vivant
with that cool smile which in vain pretends
switch off the lights
lock the door
relax
forget for a moment that you exist
the debit and credit of every day
the cityʼs pollution… the rabble

And give some thought to the immense sky
The millions of stars up there…

`

*

COMMENT

Maybe in the process of moving
from one country to another
or from one decade to another
or from one version to another
or yet
during so many riots
so many shocks, so many deaths
a number of things were lost
many and useful
― precious objects, relics
contracts, maps, sketches
records and proof of rights
Well, these losses determined us
These specified the then future
― today a spent past ―
setting a binding limit to our lives

But
thereʼs no reason thinking about it
for even if
these losses were avoided
others may well have taken their place
determining ― again without our knowledge ―
the future of our unsuspecting lives
As such, regrets are meaningless
whichever the alternatives, in the end
theyʼd have led us on the same road
In the same desert weʼd again walk
harassed by the sun and the sand
looking for a message from the sky
thirsting for water and justice

In the same desert our bones would shine