then I travelled a lot,
to the end of the earth and to the end
of my days,
traveling how the dragons are traveling in the summer or
how the wild dogs raged by hunger
or hare-brained fireflies through the darkness of
a carcass of a rotting horse
and I heard it covering me outwith
a relentless noise of a pairs of wings,
countless wings
and how sad I was like a white swan
at night I was dreaming such a ripened quince
hopes embracing the moon :
„There are angels, boy,” I said to myself
„…angels coming to help you!”
besides, I was not utterly an idiot and
in the morning when I was washing my face in the spring
with my own lucidity,
I knew it was only the untamed sussuration of
lust of blood
flies, only flies,
circling my universe.

„An archangel has never put its holy ear against
a broken heart of a horse’s carcase”

and travelling back on the road
with my own halves of human and beast barely
breathing within.

… I went far and away,
up to the end of the earth and till the end
my days
how, at one time, only the zealous ascetics avid for
pain used to leg it,
or hare-brained fireflies through darkness without
compassion for a rotting horse carcass
– increasing nausea –
looking disgusted at the knot in the words
as today and tomorrow insidious and cruel
whatever I ask reverberate in my bones
the wilderness and that
there is no treshold I can sit down
nor door to rest on
all the horses are tired of waiting
and the field is all snowed with bones
between corpses there is no form
of comunication
only a summary empathy, deaf
as a liquor flowing silently from on side to
unconvincingly like in the movies
or how we’ve seen happening between the world
of sea creatures and the feeble light of the moon
otherwise how they are between the world of stones the world and the world
of metals
or in-between this world and that world
that’s it

… I’ve travelled more than enough
I would say
so much that from now on I can hear how light
is bending,
whinging like a sheet buckled in the hand of the one
who molds the earth
a box of a bitter resonance
it’s hard to believe, although I don’t feel any type
of pitifulness
her crying is calling me all the way
my end is nigh.
and I began to laugh as I haven’t laughed in years…

from ”A husk in a bitch’s fur” (2015)

Translated by Daniela Bullas

Photo by Emanuel Pope