I. The House
This house stood with a broken window,
where twilight wove a wormwood confession.
Ash bit into the damp foundation,
emptiness lay like a cross on the threshold.
I settled into the darkness through long sleep,
having given the bricks my breath and speech.
This house stood with a broken window,
where twilight wove a wormwood confession.
I held the walls with heart and brow,
though every motion broke against refusal.
From silence I spun a secret conversation –
I grew into the stone wall and became this dwelling.
This house stood with a broken window.
II. Ashes
Here no kindling was left for burning,
only ash that remembered the embers.
Time lays upon the faded altar
the rust of centuries and the rubble of stone.
The charred glow of days grows dim,
Time weaves a net of cracks into the calendar.
Here no kindling was left for burning,
only ash that remembered the embers.
I derive from pain the formula of endurance,
where pain is only form, not a blind blow.
The cracked chimney whistles with the winds,
and the soul accepts oblivion’s decree.
Here no kindling was left for burning.
III. Blindly
No one called me – I chose the path,
as a ray knows the dimension of the void.
Where a clammy draft sank into my shoulders,
and a hoarse voice dissolved in the winds.
I wore my feet raw on silent paths,
asking for neither protection nor escape.
No one called me – I chose the path,
as a ray knows the dimension of the void.
When the horizon hid itself in smoke,
I cast memories and belongings into the thorns,
stepping to meet the cold,
to rise as dawn upon the steppes.
No one called me – I chose the path.