4. soil. red.
our looks are homeless
the body remembers everything
departing from the temple
house for migratory birds

night in night out someone would enter the temple
and slurp with a teaspoon
the eyes of the saints

thinking that he would thus be able to see

for a long while I was departing from the temple
I’d go back to every corner
every crack
over and over round in circles
with my palms I’d stroke
the walls
I’d close my eyes
and imbibe the fragrances
so that they will stay within forever

I’d go back to it for days on end
for months
moments grew into centuries
outside of it

for years I’d enter it
I’d go back to it after my travels
for years I’d pray in it
and confess
I’d lie on the cold stone
and with my ear to the ground
and listen in
every time
I thought I’d hear
something new
that I don’t know

and as of late we no longer are
either the temple in me
or I in the temple

Translated by Lazar Popov

2018-08-21T17:23:49+00:00 November 2nd, 2000|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 98|0 Comments