WORLD POETS MAGAZINE

                                  Crickets                  The deliverance of ancient times   Tonight I bury my legacies under mirages of the desert where the cricket, that eloquent speaker with vibrant songs in the sands and groves, piles up its winged eggs. I will soon see the truth in a silhouette of dust wave its fork of reminiscences. Anguished loves are taboo for me! The ideal is covered with a shroud of sorrows invisible to the profane! The seasons are delivered from time! The full moon in disarray over dunes is pale and bitter from being unable to influence the tides of sand. This is the great mystery that surprises us at an age when wings of dreams mingle with the roots of the soul devoid of memory. But while the strong winds are familiar to us, the sky in its fury ...

  The smell I’m sure comes from farther off than the seaweed dead grasses brought by the sea false twin of humidity and you in symmetry with the worm up there silencing the white holes you’d only have to lift your finger to invent the rain I’d put a lid on it and we would never speak of it again.   But you drew the bolt when the eclipse came even the shutters stayed closed with four roses outside at the foot of the wall tomorrow I’ll cut three of them you told me and put them to dry on the grass the fourth is the rose of the winds someone has to keep the north when pieces of the compass are pecked by the highway’s devouring birds.   Your finger raised toward the dark regions was it leaving to descend again with the very first rain was it going away to pierce the abscess so the sky would deflate unless it’s saying more prosaically since poetry is not afraid of paradox how hard it is to defend THE INTEREST OF ALL THE ROSES.   (Translated from the...