Fleetingness
The despair of fate. The instability of dreams. And if you really are so
angry. I am the first to notice you slept bad. Today. Road accident. The opening
doors of the dispensaries. Searching for diligence. But that is not so
important. Today. Virtuous smiles. Vainness of grief. Yours. Today. You shall be
able to quench your thirst from that mysterious brook. It is hidden in the green
grass. Among hot stones. And yellow sand. Will you manage to find it. Will you
hear its gentle murmur against the fidgety hubbub of your birds. A sponge-cake
with orange. For breakfast. The opening doors of the dispensaries. Today. If you
close your eyes. Don’t you say these words. Don’t remember these words. Today.
You only have to stretch your
hand in such an early hour. And if you are so angry, indeed. Today. I can tell
you that this is my exaggeration. To be angry. But angry only with you. A
rencontre. In the opening doors of the dispensaries. A casual glance. When
there’s no words yet. And no dreams. Together. You only have to stretch your
hand. Today. A casual glance. Will I hear that it’s not easy to wait. To pass
ahead and, turning back, not to stretch a hand. Among cheese, grapefruits and
cucumbers. To search for your look. And if it’s only a delusion, it isn’t worth
despair. Your destiny is like your restless birds. You will not turn it down.
But it’s a delusion, and it’s not worth your despair. And your useless grief.
Today. Flowers. And birds. You’ll take them away with you in the pocket of a
blue frock coat. Not a kiss. And not smiles. The despair of fate. Yours. Today.
Here, listen. This is so important. Today. If you go away. Today. If you close
your eyes. Today. If you do not stretch your hand. Today. If a casual glance.
Without dreams. Today. An accidental touch. In the opening doors of the
dispensaries. Today. Simplicity. Like your flowers. Incapable of dying. It’s a
pity. They won’t be frozen spring in the lists of my books. Joy. From your
unhurried steps. Along the strait roadway. In the darkness. In exchanging
glances of curious stars. In flights of grey clouds. Without the moon. Without a
smile. Without a stretched hand. Having shut the door of a room with blank
windows. Without the walls. Without the ceiling. What floor, I wonder. What
house. Eagerness you destroy with. Tenderness. If you really are so angry.
Today. Don’t say these words. Don’t remember these words. In loneliness. In the
room with blank windows. Without the walls. Without the ceiling. Staring at the
switched off TV. Forgetting about the sponge-cake and orange. For breakfast. A
rencontre, when it’s already not easy to wait. If you are really so angry.
Today. My uncertainty. But is this the reason for endless tears. And your
evening dreams. In loneliness. In the room with blank windows. Without the
walls. Without the ceiling. Staring at the switched off TV. Maybe get some wine.
And a loud laughter will shadow your useless grief. In such a late hour. When
it’s not easy to wait. Today. My uncertainty. And doubt. In the despair of your
fate. Without a smile. Without a touch. In silence. In the room with blank
windows. Without the walls. Without the ceiling. Today. The last cry. Don’t
close your eyes. Don’t go away. If you are so angry, indeed. Today. I agree, it
may be in loneliness. But what about the rencontre. But what about the casual
glance. Silly to forget. Today. Road accident. The opening doors of the
dispensaries. Virtuous smiles. Cold tables. Without clothes. Without tenderness.
But with diligence. They can convince of their work and capability. Trust. Cold
tables. Without sleep. Without pain. Unhurried steps. Along the strait roadway.
In the darkness. Today. Without joy. Without a smile. Without a touch. Today.
Without tears. Because it’s not you. The bright light of the round lamps. In the
room with blinds on the windows, with the cold tables, with the virtuous smiles.
Without pain. Without tears. Today. They can convince of their work and
capability. Delusion which is worth despair. Today. The point is not to pass
ahead and not look back. Not to stretch a hand. Today. A telephone call. In the
darkness. My uncertainty. And are you really so angry. I am be the first to
notice you slept bad. Without a touch. Without a smile. Without dreams. Today.
In the mysterious brook, hidden in the green grass, among the hot stones and the
yellow sand is the despair of your fate. You can turn it down. And it is
not a delusion. And it’s not worth your despair. Today. You can turn it down.
And, on casting a casual glance in the opening doors of the dispensaries, to
pass ahead and look back. And stretch your hand. A touch. With smile. With
tenderness. Without pain. Without your useless grief. Today. Road accident. Cold
tables. Without clothes. Without tears.
Looking into the bright light of the round lamps with surprise. And the sounding
reflections of scalpels. Of white gloves. Of the bending virtuous smiles. Trust
like delusion. Today. If you are so angry, indeed. Am I the reason of only that.
Don’t say these words. Today. Don’t remember these words. A touch. With smile.
With tenderness. Without pain. Without your
useless grief. In the room with blank windows. Without the walls. Without the
ceiling. What floor, I wonder. What house. Among cheese, grapefruits and
cucumbers. If you go away. If you close your eyes. If you don’t stretch your
hand. If you are so angry, indeed. Don’t search for the brook. And forger her
face. Today.
Copyright by Nightingale (2003).