To face the persistent paths,
The route echoes,
Reclaiming your steps, the confidence,
In the mist of a myriad fallings
Is to regain. Then seek. Then fortify.
The angership
Of the vowelless pages
Ignoring gold-rushes and rush-hours
above the same old deserts
Nonnegotiable demarcations
Of feeling…

Just picture:
My own quarantine isle!
Wrapped in night sounds
And promise lists
Expecting isolation
To lock the unlockable keys.

If I was this hideous instant of loss
I’d wear a necessary mask
Of Paris-made gloss………..


The Settler

You are.

Into the long longing corner of our sameness
A season in disguise at noon
The grapes of never planted harvests,
The sleep of foster seeds and cherry trees in bloom.

A self-reflecting sunbeam in a guilty spring.

You were mine.
Before the two World Wars illiterate dead
became wheat
then white bread;
before their sharp, prayless bones
became coat of arms;
before their thirsty, all bleeding kisses
became history textbooks;

Like the untouched weeds of a parental grave
The entrance to a candleless cathedral
The stone transition
From a future bride’s to the other woman’s finger
The unfound wounded wing.

You are to be.
The unborn yet of all the hunted species
The trophy for a buried sunset…
For all my days after tomorrow
My magic carpet.


Lover of Solitude

Nothing wakes me up. No more.
There is no ear left
either to hear or to listen
During my voluntary sleep
my lips have no mutual memories.
Only in my dreams
can my fingers still
cover your hair, surrender your tears,
deserve your forgiveness.
Since I was born I have been
only begging and praying
begging and praying
firstly to man
and then, and finally,
to God.
You are the lover of silence,
I am but a mere statue of sound.
No scream will ever come between us.


13 years of missing...


I knew to be safe inside you only.
My omniscient past with
Your formal wings, protective, never – flown like
A greedy kernel of complexity.
Caressing the appearance of a rainbow.

Never has death acknowledged any ages
Under the long-witnessing pale-looking moon
You are as young as the abandoned infants.
The whitest of the whitest.
The soonest and my soon.

Inscrutable morality-
A shelter and a coffin of my dreams!
So still and still so worthy of your dormant layers
I HAVE fearED.
The absence of our home is homesick
You’re missing and I’m missing you.
My native fever
My flawless platitude
My sail ...my settle down...my volunteering sunset.