It is me, returning after all these years or else centuries, ma princesse.

Nothing, but Europe has grown old in the maps, and the seas gotten all lined and
wrinkled,
my pale ash-grey forehead mirroring the sky of the same look.
Eyes heavy, as if belonging to somebody else, traversing
pages laden with child erotica, yet disembodied
among the inescapable sadnesses of l´amour courtois. As the centuries fly away,
it is as if stones were falling from a knight's heart in the heart of a facade.

I´ll ask the shadow of my hand for its hand, which will be so tender,
my pale ash-grey forehead mirroring the same look of the sky.
It´s the dust falling on our souls and the universe clinging with the murmur
of mouths
bleeding into a womb of the deceased Word. Fair-haired dames of the court
unfold their baroque eyes like fans. And it is in their fine complexion
where the wilting sun still teases into life the blood that keeps the Globe in motion.

The horn of a Capricorn or a McLaren flashes and whizzes across my sight
only to descend and park deep inside. A jawbone claps as
the AI collects all kinds of sun-swollen tulips.
The troubadour drunk from a wine made of roses, he dreams a song
that will click open the lips of a hologram and let the eyelids fall on grey screens.
A golden lock nests in a palm and smells all around of the best Chinese cuisine.

Through a staticky screen I can see the esteemed congress above the planet
and a feudal who walks down the wide hall right into an apocalypse.
Between my fingers I am still holding atoms, nuclear warheads, and satellites
they wash the crumbling walls of our Earth,
vivisected with a timely hand. I can´t grasp any other hands
that have never touched artificial matter. I can just raise my bleeding mouth from
the stone,

from the stone that touched your skin ages ago, dear princess.

English Translation from Martin Solotruk