I Can No Longer Speak in Your Name
But still, send me some kind of sign.
Because I am alone
like the smoke after the killing in the barrel of a revolver,
and like the wild fig
that suddenly sprouted among embankments blackened by fire.
Like the ladle of the soup pot
at dawn in the mouth of a man gasping for breath,
and like sea foam in a place of executions,
I am alone, and I’m waiting for you.
With senses stretched
like cats responding to the innkeeper’s call.
With an eye whose optic nerve
is nothing less than the sky itself under a microscope,
and with an ear whose eardrum
is nothing but a gypsy’s umbrella.
With words that scatter in panic
like goats when a train appears suddenly,
and with a dark soul that sees many things,
like a man, locked inside a lens — the eye of a watchmaker,
I am alone.
I am alone, and I’m waiting for you.
