I remember those days...

I remember those days, quiet, loose, unremarkable
except for the degree of penetration through
of a bleak sunshine, entirely absent, like a marble
glimmering under the ripe and pliant blue

arching above, measuring all by its own measure,
having no consistency in it,
like a stone revealing one hundred kinds of azure,
enframed by the lumps of soil that conceal a split

within its powerful, painful landscapes, trees and pigeons,
stretched silhouettes of the giraffes marching through
the alley where the wind holds tightly the flute, the visions
replacing one another, merging into a reverie.

I remember days when all seemed strange, misplaced,
when every wing cut slightly to the side,
and the cypress-tree dashed off its crown and raced
along the windscreen, disappearing beyond the glade

created by the incessant movement all around,
a kind of stillness achieved in spite of all,
where singing objects carried by their own sound
splashed so high up, and fell upon the grieving mall.

The waves were tremendously low, with a pallid nestling
chirping on their curve, ready to fly away,
the waves crashed with each other, howling, struggling, wrestling,
spitting out the essence of the gray gray day,

almost completed inside the growing funnel
stuck half-way through between two broken plates,
still hanging there, abandoned, after all was done, all
didn't happen yet again. Every object hates

when it cannot remain itself, being forced to grow
in its sleep, collecting dust and the grains of song,
every object hates when it's forced to know
what it couldn't touch for so long.

Days when there was a knowledge in the air
that there was a wealth of time ahead of me,
waiting somewhere, unpacked, somewhere there,
all I had to do was to approach it silently,

touch it, possess it, make it be my own,
be reflected in it, into it, through it,
so a music-box with a painted clown
floats through the silent darkened room, replete

with the imitated melodies, with the yearning faces
gone into the shadow, to be never seen again,
only its rusty spring winds, unwinds and traces
their peculiar movements and the sprouting grain

of their souls growing somewhere since the souls must grow,
floating through the night like some dark-blue squids,
and their concave eyes are sliding high and low
over their stretched bodies, and each image meets

all the others, till they merge, no longer
able to move on, endure, differentiate,
and the lump of sounds, no more a song - a
complaining apple - falls into the lap of fate.

How hard it is to compress what has been
into the tiny shell of a resplendent heart,
all of it - 'tween my mother's hands and the Lesbian
cliffs, which must have been there from the start

mixing their soil with the milk I was sucking,
goats walking ghost-like along the underside of the sky,
cheese-coloured temples that remain here, plucking
ceaselessly, effortlessly, whatever remains of my

life, touching the shingles of memories and leaving,
and picking them up, once more, once more.
It's only the time, only the time is heaving,
panting like a stray whale, hugging the shore,

it's only your life moving round and round,
mixed with the autumn leaves and the fading smell of dew,
it's only the stone falling back on the ground,
which you tossed up when your hands were new.