the curse of the goddess nyx

people would fight for each bison coming out from the wall
time would become a church – the curch an ark
hurtlessly and impossible to describe
the saints would vanish one by one after each fasting time
the icons would take off their silver
the birds would throw away their breaks and their tongues
except for us, my love me would smoke Zarathustra’s freedom

the chisel would polish the real face
which I would wear wear walking alone,
the night’s chains at my feet
you had lost hair to the hands of the sculptor
out of mercy, cruelty humility
the war hroke out in an onyx stone

and the song would turn to ashes
but my voice was stronger
although I was speaking in whispers of you
And the glass of vanity would grow on our body

tomorrow it might turn into a piece of clay
the light of he who is killed in wonder

on the sidewalk- fewer dead people than inside the soul
in a war only for us , my love
I would look at loneliness as a pod-idol
stolen from the palm of a one-armed person

the world had nothing more to share
on the absinth horns the silence of those undefeated
in the jar of death, where I couldgrind my poem
killed by the wire of my heart I would search for a fish’s eye

the goddess cursed me
the road-painted on the prophesying skul
the witness mountain the devil mountain
she carefully counts the moments of my dual personality
a sad crowded infinite

they would shoot and the bullets in the sulphur fragrance
would take buterfly wings
in the huge and dirty silence
a two-heading darkness
lost from your innocent dream, child,
for a fake king and a kingdom in flatfoot
I don’t belive in demons and I lie to the other one
I spread another war on a loaf of bread
and I throw my prayer into ochre
I paint no more bisons

Youth-a decomposing boomeerang