Look! The person who ta...lked- with the words of her soul, stabbed- with the edge of her eyes, and hit- with the strokes of tender hands, is crucified on the cross of suspicion and doubt. And your five fingers sketched- the five letters of Truth, on her face.
What is silence, silence, silence, Beloved? Isn’t it just the chant of buried words?
I am mute but the sparrow’s words- are all about the celebration of this world. Their song is about leaf, flower and flow. It is about breeze, perfume and birth. The sparrow’s words- would die in the deal.
The Sun, alas, failed to penetrate- into both of those two lone souls- and that blue, heavenly air- was drained out of you. But I am so full, full, so full- that they are praying- on the density of my tone. They are praying- on the density of my voice.
Will I flow my hair again- in the wild winds? Will I grow again- bushes of roses, in the courtyard? Will I place them again behind the blind? Will I dance again mad, drunk, all around?
Can the buzzer again, take me to the expectation of the sound? …
I will abandon lines, I will also abandon charts; And from bounded geometric shapes, I will shelter in the expanding vastness of sense. I am nude, nude, nude.
I am bare- like a silent pause between tender words, And all of my wounds are from love, love, from love.
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Комментарии 2
Look!
The person who ta...lked-
with the words of her soul,
stabbed- with the edge of her eyes,
and hit- with the strokes of tender hands,
is crucified on the cross of suspicion and doubt.
And your five fingers sketched- the five letters of Truth,
on her face.
What is silence, silence, silence, Beloved?
Isn’t it just the chant of buried words?
I am mute but the sparrow’s words-
are all about the celebration of this world.
Their song is about leaf, flower and flow.
It is about breeze, perfume and birth.
The sparrow’s words-
would die in the deal.
The Sun, alas, failed to penetrate-
into both of those two lone souls-
and that blue, heavenly air-
was drained out of you.
But I am so full, full, so full-
that they are praying- on the density of my tone.
They are praying- on the density of my voice.
Will I flow my hair again-
in the wild winds?
Will I grow again-
bushes of roses, in the courtyard?
Will I place them again behind the blind?
Will I dance again mad, drunk, all around?
Can the buzzer again,
take me to the expectation of the sound?
…
I will abandon lines,
I will also abandon charts;
And from bounded geometric shapes,
I will shelter in the expanding vastness of sense.
I am nude, nude, nude.
I am bare-
like a silent pause between tender words,
And all of my wounds are from love,
love, from love.