Again, I am thinking in verses,
delivering words no fault of my own.
I accept all complicity provoked by writing.
Writing the open, under an open sky,
after despair and sickness, but with the sam passion.
Salvation every writing.
On stone, on the closed and the unknown,
even though all words are equally unknown.
Writing on all the year’s seasons,
apocryphal, already mastered signs.
And on all meridians,
writing on the margins, dangerous writing.
And, that without any reason – as is, again, all writing.
On the kilometres along which lonely
we think how to close the emptiness of paper,
how to write – in the world.
Salvation also those pauses between writing.
On pages already written upon,
the writing of the first lines of the next poem…
The magic of creation. The creation of the seductive.
Writing –
always a chivarly in vain.
Translated by Nikolai Jeffs