by Kirill Azernyy

Meanwhile, a map of the chase: the thin paper.
Chasers are lost, chased are asleep. The night
Has come, unnoticed. The Sun with all its high rise has left its signature
On the woman’s name. The capitallest of the letters won’t reach for the source of light –
empty, for the light is all over the palace – won’t put a secret to the secret place. We saw
the blink of an eye: we got the point
of no return. I know the way she went,
But they won’t follow the abandoned path. She runs,
she changes, and changes. The night is higher than the heads
of asses, darker than the page – it’s there already, and, full of sense, balloon explodes in silence.
Or inner voice?
Or more?
Athenians by Momus are deluded,
Theseus points out, and forgets.
These usses are as useful as if one
of us was carefully implemented into
a play – you say – the play, once more, as if
it was your first time to pronounce this.
Recall her name, and she’ll be yours forever! Invented is the void! We can’t rely
on this abundance, but the abandoned house? Whose house is this? Who’s left the chest untouched?
This open air’s not for strolls or fawns. I put my signature – my only light
is burning moth, enormous, and so on.
Who spilt the ink at night? Who doubled us?
Returning to routine, you shall not pass the corridor of old and ruined joke. There was a bridge, but now the other side
is here again, for comedy it is!
To Pack your clothes, wrap them in my foil,
my golden foil, for silence is the gold (though fake one, if you only let me note).

door Kirill Azernyy


tekstbron: inzending ontvangen op 18/06/2021
opgenomen in WEEKBLADEN #55 - to waxen thy mirth

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