Among the graves we search for our
lost homes. What hides behind
the monuments/tombs is our new landscape.

In the holes we buried the bodies of our kin,
yet we could not, would not leave behind
the beating of their entrusted will.

— “Don’t go!”, “Wash the stone so my bones
can be warmed by the sun…”, “Will you let the wind
extinguish the candles?!”, “Won’t you look at the picture?!”

Rosemary, with its root, burrows through the soul,
and never could thoughts have
a stronger fragrance. Leave the letters on the epitaph,
they are beautiful
when faded by the sun.

“The hidden plastic flowers you
give me only tell me that soon
you will not visit me—throw them away!”

We live with the alter ego of those who have departed,
yet they are present, omnipresent in our becoming.
And so, every Sunday we wash our hands at
the cemetery faucet placed at the center of the zone of
dead people who live among the spiritual projections
of the living. These are new cities, and in them there are no taxis.