wearing army boots you clumped through the vineyards of god
somewhere on the adriatic in medana or priština maybe piran
since school days geography has been your blind spot
your worn overcoat faded by weather shows its original color
where your insignias were roman fatigue
or just the tedium at the fringes of the empire
patches stained with dirt and blood in the nights there was time enough
to think about possibilities of life about other lives here
about a woman about many women
imprisoned in attics of your dreams while the south wind
every morning blows in wreckage of jason's ships
sweat of impassioned men the mirage of the most beautiful woman
every drowned man would tell the truth about how many women he'd had
but the living don't dare make a mistake
they make mistakes and let themselves be chained to oars
to the mast women singing in the vineyards
which century from
history is your blind spot
only the erection you hide behind a shield
betrays your nomadic soul your merciless
hunger for blood even now at the end of the century
against a background of faded architecture
where clotheslines barely hold flapping laundry
you are not indifferent to death maybe just a cheap wine
just a ticket from a travel agency in the pocket of your jeans
fixing your eyes on the thighs of the girl selling grapes
you smell the delicious scents of helen