…here,

with me lives that mocking soul all soundless,

without deeds and gestures, at the waters’ edge,

hidden behind the verdure like stillness after death,

in me you live, mocking soul swearing at time,

and at the disposable ideas of my parents

tired of illusions,

 

I stretch my hand out fondly and feel no more than nature,

not the firm hand of  man,

I reach out and touch only nature,

the wildest sensation of loneliness,

 

And still they trust sun bakes sweet loaves of clay bread,

strength dwindles, the mind steams off, smokes,

the sensation vomits

 

because of the reek of the human statue on the eve;

while it’s reborn in april

 

and I do not fear much the highlander’s rhapsodic white clod,

while it appears naïve within me, –

…lute…, clarinet…, drone…

the mortarboard placed overhead

woolen condom for the brain

fills me with dread, scares me to death, that alone.