and

and the swaying night
open a narrow window in the old wall

I stand up of me
a lizard crosses my spine
as a pain
of a child aged on the womb of the world

doubtful I remember
the scene
Chekhov with hardened gull
in his red hand
imagining the humiliation
of unfulfilled loves

in the waves of the wild river
my face
pierced of trouts

gray water passes through the orbits

I am
increasing and deserted me
among the weeping willows

poetry is full of spring
stunned on your ankles the love

morning eye split our life

of course I lie
of course I joy to tie words

I should be silent

friends I am the loser
the loser which
no longer believes in this world
the poetry

but whenever
I build in it wholeheartedly

humbly seeking
as the time
becomes carnivore