In the morning 

my poem kills all sense,

with its blood

I paint rocks red

and I invent freedom.

my poem throws itself off a bridge,

declares love to the water,

travels towards the cathode

and marries machine 

and nature.

 

My poem will decide 

whether it falls or takes flight

 

and I am born 

from their wild love.

 

I am what is happening

I create my own image, 

through a glass darkly,

neither holy, nor profane,

my eternity is simultaneously 

heavenly and a hell.

 

I am not among us

or them, 

my peace is an explosive, 

my rage is toothless,

I walk on the edge of a world 

that has no edges,

 

I walk a tightrope,

 

my firebird 

is sleepless, 

powerless,

immortal, 

nocturnal.

 

My poem is eternal.