the old house buries

translated by PLS

it is possible to write, of the dark imprisonment of the forest. the village, encircled by wind

reminiscing belongs to the sycamores and me, birthplace. 

upon which: I, blue flagstones, the absence of mother

the opportunity to touch is a possibility to slump, the perpetrator runs into an intelligent baby

giving them a sneer. those that the evil does not have time to cover, eyes, breaths

any sign of revenge that can lock down restlessness, sedimenting

by the time it reaches the bottom, the singing is here too. clarinet, organ and borrowed

peat. those that don’t get to say goodbye drown in the sky, and the weakening

hurricane, the footsteps heading towards the sycamore stay away from

the singing and the spinning of unplugged fan, the melodies come from somewhere

mother, father and the old house