The moon is at the door
Hung by its feet.
Everybody became self-sufficient
As a cut string.
Friends beget hither and thither
Lies and trifles.
The meaning is imprisoned within itself
None can redeem it
Nor even I.
Those who died
Had written well their destroyed poems.
Yesterday I died.
In the morning I, as usual, woke up.
Hunger is a letter.
All you need is to envelope it
And send to you.
Sorry
To me.
The woman died: so did the dream,
The sense and the dawn.
Her death was an occasion for forty other disasters.
Madness is beautiful
Because it is my post box full of birds
And my future full of darkness.
My letters have protested
Against the grief mountains in themselves.
So I crushed them with a hand of steel
With patience and horror.
The poet and the ruler died.
The philosopher died
And the historian died.
When the fruit seller died
The people, then, have protested.
My only friend who survived
Sent me a letter, full of serpents and owls.
It filled my home with horror.
When I read my poems yesterday
In a public celebration
A large mass of audience was there
I had never dreamt of.
Over there, there was none
But my heart,
My table
And my blood.
Your love is poetry of light
And you; my sweetheart are
A she- prophet of darkness.
When I wrote your name, I became embarrassed.
I madly loved its letters.
I feared that people would behold them.
Nay, I feared that I would behold them myself.
Where are you?
Bring back to my blood Africa's drums
Asia's follies
And the phantoms of the lower world.
Your love has become a poem.
All the crazy people of the Earth
Are fond of it.
How wonderful!
Your love has led my poetry
To the essence of letters and dots.
It has led me to superiority
To superiority madness.
Th…
The moon is at the door
It has lifted one foot!