The sun was dirty, or it looked so, on the street and on the sidewalk. There was a spent breath placed there, amidst disfigured children.
We entered, we were three. Fresh shadows and lights, like in the imposing library, with guards. Here is:
The mist descends and struggles below /
or the mist goes up and its feet
disappear while its mane,
on the top, entangles itself
with the architecture…
The skeleton of the mist
is like an…
extremely long void
and, when going dark,
hides in its breath target…
The mist is a finger
touching the ceiling / or
a huge nail of a finger
stubby…
stuck in the ground…
(Around, always
up: the walls don’t talk,
but have Adam’s apple
emphasized / in front of the mirror,
our crumbled reflexes fly
everywhere, like a flock
of swift birds.)
*This poem could be called “Author’s self-portrait.”
English translation by Raymont L. Bianchi