Your soul—timeless and homeless—
is a gust of wind,
a current of fragmented images,
the symphony with no notes,
performed without an orchestra
a sudden glance, a stomped flower…
Crowds of people live inside you,
a compilation of times, dramas of death.
You are like a shaken child,
a stranger to yourself.
Your body feels alien to you.
No one could see through your hoary eyes.
And someone’s pain is suffocating you,
and someone’s eyes
are piercing you through
like bullets from double barreled handgun.
You got a taste of your worthlessness.
You became everything for everybody.
Not being present anywhere, anytime,
you turned into a guest house
with doors wide open and a lost door key.
How many people slept here,
how many were nourished,
how many sinned?
You lost count long ago.
And how many tried to enroot,
convinced that there would be no deadlines?
Your melancholy leafs
through streets and faces,
scuffles through the wind,
plunges through the pouring rain.
And now, like your eyelash
torn off by the wind,
you are weightless, hovering in the heights.
You see down below in the valley,
the stern shepherd
carrying a rod and the book of road ciphers,
rushing hoards of mad folk along the road,
unable to tell apart, the living from the dead…