Your Wide Eyes Are The Only Light

Am I Allowed To Ask My Book / Whether It's True I Wrote It?

Here I Love You And The Horizon Hides You In Vain. I Love You Still Among These Cold Things. Sometimes My Kisses Go On Those Heavy Vessels That Cross The Sea Towards No Arrival. I See Myself Forgotten Like Those Old Anchors. The Piers Sadden When The Afternoon Moors There. My Life Grows Tired, Hungry To No Purpose. I Love What I Do Not Have. You Are So Far. My Loathing Wrestles With The Slow Twilights. But Night Comes And Starts To Sing To Me.

Who Do I Belong To? How Come I Mortgaged My Being Till I Don't Belong To Myself? How Come I Sold My Blood? And Who Now Owns My Indecisions, My Hands, My Private Pain, My Pride?

I Stroll Along Serenely, With My Eyes, My Shoes, My Rage, Forgetting Everything, I Walk By, Going Through Office Buildings And Orthopedic Shops, And Courtyards With Washing Hanging From The Line: Underwear, Towels And Shirts From Which Slow Dirty Tears Are Falling.

Never An Illness, Nor The Absence Of Grandeur, No, Nothing Is Able To Kill The Best In Us, That Kindness, Dear Sir, We Are Afflicted With: Beautiful Is The Flower Of Man, His Conduct, And Every Door Opens On The Beautiful Truth And Never Hides Treacherous Whispers. I Always Gained Something From Making Myself Better, Better Than I Am, Better Than I Was, That Most Subtle Citation: To Recover Some Lost Petal Of The Sadness I Inherited: To Search Once More For The Light That Sings Inside Of Me, The Unwavering Light.