The doors

This night, dreaming, I dreamed of pencils and colours –
This might be a good Christmas gift,
to draw doors and windows on the walls,
flowers on the windowsills and passport facing
on the fields, and skies crossed the horizon from the seas.

But this morning, if I should die, the seas and the winds,
nor the fields, nor the heavens will not know it.

This morning, another day, once more Death didn’t notice me.
My name is not there on the angel’s breathless ballot.
The stone ship is leaving overflowing, but without me.

Someone sends kisses and go how all things pass. Someone stay
as the door from which he had come. Heart, down there in the
street, a luckier heart, going back home, whistled itself a tune,
while a thought, a foot, something, a vessel of flowers was
crushing him.

 

 

 

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