After you killed me, you wore my soul, like the night, around your neck. Secretly prized. You had won. And then tossed me, forsaken, aside. You thought you had escaped me, but I am the jewels in your crown now.
Only by a continual effort can I create. My tendency is to drift toward immobility. My deepest, surest inclination lies in silence and the daily routine. To escape relaxation,
the fascination of the mechanical, it took years of perseverance.
But I know that I stand erect through that very effort and that if I ceased to believe in it for a single moment I should roll over the precipice. This is how I avoid illness
and renunciation, raising my head with all my strength to breathe and to conquer. This is my way of despairing and this is my way of curing myself
Autumn is eating a leaf from my hand: we are friends.
We are picking time out of a nut, we teach it to run:
and time rushes back to its shell.
In the mirror it’s Sunday, in dreams people sleep,
the mouth tells the truth.
My eye descends to the sex of my loved one,
we gaze at each other,
we whisper out darkness,
we love one another like poppies and memory,
we sleep like wine in a seashell,
like the sea in the moon’s bloody rays.
Embracing we stand by the window,
and people look up from the street:
it is time that they knew!
It is time that the stone grew accustomed to blooming,
that unrest formed a heart.
It is time it was time.
It is time.