The nights don’t have moon sometimes.
A rope goes out of me, stretching as an ivy
almost to the stored sky. It's a way
of gathering information, a way to overfly
the eyes area as a given territory.

The window is moving. I'm afraid to
startle, to think or to cut from the images.
There is no freedom in me …
The hope of liberation is just an illusion.

The window bars of the neighbor's balcony
are the only reality of this second -
frosted onions stuffed in the brown tights
and the cold which sharpens the burning
sensation.

We’re in a border region with crazy
sycamores and hideous animals.
Let's waste the light, the water, the darkness
and the deep silence between us.