Windows                                                           Doors

 

Windows and Doors are the rectangular eyes of houses.

Houses are shelters,
Guardians, during the flight of children into their dreams.
Here, now, borders the end of this night.
Almost.
Shoe soles on the moist - sparkling – paved street.

Not even one,
Not a single falling star.
No sound.

Left                                           Right

Windows                                                    Doors

 

Doors                                    Windows

are blind eyes of buildings.

Buildings are masks,
behind them hide the face of men during their dreams.

The buildings are shelters to those who dare sleep.

 

I am walking home.

 

Under the street lantern,
on this destined circle of Natrium light,
in between the glistering of the paving,
I recognize the head of a decapitated prophet.
This is the head of Johanan.
The mouth, lipless, imitate a smile.
The eyelids - decayed through the floating time - are missing.
The irises, motionless,
pierce
my lungs,
my heart,
my voice.

I look at my shadow
I see that I cannot walk.
I can only hear the soundless street shine.

Yonder
a meter of three.
Beyond the bound of the Natrium yellow light,
against the iron of the left wall of the gray green container
phosphorescent the opal beauty of a head.
It is the head of a marble God.
I can’t recall his name.

 

I know that I hear the voice of the prophet
for I see the teeth of Johanan move:

 

- When you will meet my friend what are you going to tell him?

The nudeness of the eyes of the Prophet has perforated my voice.

 

-Tell him that I am lovesick.

 

The head of Johanan languished under the street.
Faded away in-between the acrid shades of this yellow light of Natrium.

On the feet of the left wall of the gray container,
beyond the bound of the Natrium yellow circle
the iridescent head of the beautiful nameless God of Marble glistens,
precise as the scent of a falling star sparkles.

I look at my shadow.
I see that I can walk, to my home.

 

I think:
"As soon as the spring comes the landscape around me will change,
like a Cemetery,
filled with colors and scents of the flowers
left behind by the beloved visitors.

 

A blind rectangular eye,
the door of my house looks at me.

 

Yonder, into the yellow Natrium silence the head of Johanan whispers:

 

- When you will meet my friend what are you going to tell him?

 

Yellow natrium light,
yellow natrium Silence.

 

-Tell him that I am lovesick.

You stand in front of me,
Motionless statue, unaltered, rigid,
Soft, unfathomable the farewell of the night sparkles in between your eyebrows.
You bear the departure of this night,
as if you wear the color of an infinite sapphire around your shoulders.

 

Dew
- equal to the sorrow of an angel -
has already annunciated the Dawn on your hair.

Your left shoulder leans on the doorframe of this house.
Our house.

Your head is bending subtly towards my breath.
You lips engrave an - almost invisible- smile into my eyes.
The frame of this door defines your silhouette.

 

Dew.

 

Behind that the moisten glass of the door-window,
I identify the forgotten bunch of dried flowers
The embalmed bird.
The old mirror.
The pile of the yellowish newspapers.
The unopened envelopes.
The unread magazines.
The unnoticed postcards.
The shadows of the dew.

 

Dew.

 

The rack with the coats.
The memories.
The stairs.
Behind the door of the living room awakes our Life
our Life beyond this second.
Your silhouette projected on this mute moist face of the door
becomes
- now -
the Icon of a Saint who will protect us.

I look at your lips,
I hear the contours of your lips move towards your smile.
I smell your voice.

 

- It is real, believe me.

You are whispering.

- It is real.

 

The petals of your whisper descend inside me.

Mirth and honey are the smell of your skin.
The smell of your skin confuses me.
Green almonds from the spring land are your eyes.
I listen to your voice because your lips are moving:

 

- We must go inside,
it is late
We are tired.

Before the daylight reaches us
We must take off our clothes.
Together,
in the rhythm of that soft rain
which
sometimes
leans against the windows of our Living room.

 

Then, we will lie down on the floor.

Soon will come the Noon.

More than a nameless noon it will be a Monday Noon,
when the shops are open.
We will go out, to buy a new mattress,
a white mattress without memories.

 

Naked
I will lie down on my back, calm;
for you will be next to me.
You will come to lie down on my right side.

Your left arm, straighten, below my head instead of a pillow
Your right arm.................. will your right arm embrace me?
Your right arm embraces me,
will hold my midriff.

Your eyes will caress my slightly open lips.
The knee of your right – bowed -leg will come to rest on my left thigh.

Your blood is streaming.
The palm of your right

hand brands the left side of my torso.

Your blood streams in the hollows of my heart
blending with mine.

 

Soon we will fall asleep.

Finally.
We are tired,
We will sleep.
Tomorrow,
perhaps – even - the day after tomorrow
we must try to find a way to give our lives to each other.

Now
Open our door
We must hurry
we must go inside before the daylight reaches our skin.

I open our door.
Driven by the twilight of our threshold
- precise during this fraction of this second -

my right hand touches gently you link thigh.

 

Faraway,
behind my eyes, I hear the teeth of the prophet Johanan move desperately.

 

- When you will meet my friend what are you going to tell him?

The Natrium Silence persuaded by the rise of the Morning fades into a whisper.

 

-Tell him that I am lovesick.

 

Tranquil
Now is tranquil.
You are Now
Now transforms silently to Forever

We are going to sleep Now.

Before this day – ever – arrives.

Our sleep will bring us far away,
somewhen beyond the treacherous daylight.

Our sleep imbues our bodies with dreams and wishes.

Next to eachother, we float in an unfathomable Sea.

Our mattress, - white of memories - is an infinite Sea of Plasma.
No stars, no Galaxies, not a single Universe,
Nothing can exist before our sleep on our new mattress.

Now
You
I
and the boundless tranquility between our bodies
is the breath of the infinite Sea of Plasma.

It is because we sleep,
silently melted into each other,
that the infinite Sea of Plasma awakes.

It is because our breathing follows the rhythm
of the soft rain against our window
that clouds of galaxies are born.

 

Touch me.
There…
That is the face of Perseus.
There…
The Pleiades
The lyre of Orpheus caresses Cygnus.

 

Touch me
on my shoulder.
Here                                         There
The red eyesight of Betelgeuse
The orange forehead of Aldebaran.

Touch me

There                                      Here
The breasts of Cassiopeia
The valleys of Alpha Centauri
The misty stature of Orion
The distant beauty of the face of Andromeda.

Here                                                    There

Life soughs.
Shattered.
Because of our sleep together
countless life is harvested.

 

Look at me

Everything is Now.

If I will close my eyes
the World - together with me - will disappear.

 

Come back.
Our Lives are imprisoned between one fraction of a second and another.

Come back.

 

The morning penetrates the window.
The ray of the sun is falling on the carpet.
It almost touches ignorantly the foot of the armchair.
Hits cruelly my feet
kisses my knees
entwines my midriff
pierces my lungs,
my hart,
my voice 
dries out my eyes.

Inside this room - the living room of our memories - lives our Destiny.

Destiny is a shadow;
an unpredictable shadow that turns our happiness to a page.
As a soggy sponge 
wipes out our Destiny the image of our happiness.
Our happiness has been wiped out as a miscarried drawing.

Dawn

 

Here,
beside the left shore of the Yellow River of the Silence,
- just here -
in between nameless water flowers
an oval basked
braided with reed
has been stranded

 

Here,
at the shadowy bank of the Yellow River of the Silence
- just here -
in between the violet shadows of the reed
is an oval basket,
laced with hollow slender stems,
abandoned.

 

Early travelers
pilgrims on their way to the temple of the Infant Goddess of the Dawn
passing by
found it.

Inside
in between the lilac shadows of the reed
they distinguished
the pale opal body of a newborn child.

 

Some of them thought:

- This is the lovechild of a blind Goddess

Others whispered to each other:

- This is the dead lovechild of a blind Princes.

 

Then

suddenly
beyond the remote border of the Yellow River of the Silence
rose the fever of the Sun.

The gloomy water
- stirred by the lethal sunrays -
metamorphosed to melted gold
- lethargically -
until the splendor of the morning flew into the oval basket
to plate the white untroubled body.

Enveloped with this hammering pulverizing light,
this abundant intoxicating joy,
into this aguish Silence of the Dawn,
- only then -
could the pilgrims of this morning perceive
the face of the dead body
embraced as it was by the morning gold.

 

It is not the face of the lovechild of a blind Goddess
neither the face of the dead lovechild of a blind Princes
not even the face of a man

​

It is the face of a God

who got tired last night

and came here,

on the left shore of the Yellow  River of the Silence,
to sleep.