late is October.
only the rhythmic chorus of nothing.
“April” spelled backwards on dead bones,
a plastic "google search" on today's border.
behind the window everything deceitful.
alive - only the emptiness and those who left

the pitch of the mornings made of loess, marl and clay...
the city is beyond me and I am beyond,

really, I'd have told you earlier smiling,
this and that:
the light, the green grass, the rosy lives of the saints
(and that something
only my amniotic fluid seems to remember
maybe),
is worth, yes, it does worth the sour toil
of detaching ourselves once more
of the dark womb,
we – bravely - call it
sleep.