war leaves the battle-front, wipes
with oblivion its own eyes, passes by the hairdresser’s,
hurls down the world from the tenth floor,
to be free for the evening show
the land will offer
new dead people as sacrifice,
processions of the blind,
and more medals.
peak, I will weave other battle-fronts,
straw leaders, trenches and taverns,
wine-blood, and letter processions
And in the well of oblivion I bury
names not meant for oblivion, a perplexed woman,
hearts that didn’t stop at my port, eyes
that didn’t keep watch over me,
paradises I never inhabited.
time for grief
And time for love
And I trust
my fits of sorrow to the womb of amazement.
Did the child know
that I would lead him into a dark tunnel and weave
from his shadow a king that will feed on lovely grief?
Did I know that vertigo will hurl me
far away from the palm-tree of oblivion,
and that I will force my crimes
war toppled down the towers of Babel
The mills of Aden, the voices of Rimbaud, the majestic silence of Hawi.
This war exhausted me, I will stop it
for a little while till the battle-front cools down
or the cloud of questions
takes shape on my shoulders
war might come to an end. But not
my obsession which flows from the turmoil that renders
and lovely passion to fragments
will only ever
leave her lips
to inhabit her eyes
the most gorgeous female
not the war of oblivion