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The burial of the golden threaded questions
prose [ ]

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by [Camica ]

2004-05-06  |   

Literary Translation - Translations of classic and original poetry and other materialsThis text is a follow-up  | 

The dynasty of the refrigerating moments swarm fertilely in my imagination with dead dragonflies. " I know you" they were whispering when they were alive, but i forgot that the world was dust of bacovian stars, sad and melancholic and sobbed and full of the nothingness`s clocks unshaded by
the mane of joys to be alive. There is nothing and nobody, it is the old foamy illusion of being.
Translate me as you wish: with or without words.Who understands what I am? Neither me, neither you. It remains to be seen if love unties the chains of the illusion`s puberty surrounding my being so that i wouldn`t lie, so that I wouldn`tu nderstand, so that I would remain the child on the road with uselessness. I will prescribe my will as a prescription and I promise you I will mill myself through the chopping machine into thousands pieces of will find me or not, it is your task.
Everything believes he is unraveled by human, but isn`t Everything closed in open circles of human material and in dreary circles of us? The circle, a closed curved line, perfect in itself is in fact a limitation, and thus imperfect. Do I contradict myself in too sharpp aradoxes, in too frail ones? The cross is freedom of the crushed circle, freedom of the circle, freedom of limitation...and we, the human ephemeral, are limitations of
freedom and we are freedom of limitations...
The universe opens at thousands kilometers of illusions away...We melt in time of past and innocently we frolic on the beach with sounds of dead dragonflies. We un-shadow ourselves of happiness and we remain dry of the world.
Does our sound after death remain suspended above of a concentric top liable to the damage of the skies? I believe that sometimes everything is perfect in imperfection. Sometimes the sun rises from the West. Sometimes Earth`s polarity changes, sometimes we rain in thousands of colorless words
when color exists only on the masts of some touching stories of sobs and other times the world moves round in cataplasms of tiny ideas.
And memento mori and carpe diem and dolore ipsum knit themselves in the toiled walls of monasteries with Annes and Manolis...
We are left with the smile and the power of the weakness to be
How do I turn into me? How do I exist as a human? How do I breathe life? Through what point? White? Black? Yellow? Lavender?
How do I understand the prayer towards divinity? How do I undress the night`s wires of the moonlight? How do I move on the beach of dead dragonflies?

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