English has been my second home
some times my first — many times
I can always rely on those words
as old as they are
they give a place where to rest
My English is not American
mostly British
from the North of England — may be
a little into Scotland
or so I wish
English allows me to travel
any where
any time
without the need to pack bags
or going through sad goodbyes
And there are the memories — of course
those photos of long left places
and the faces of good people — mostly blurred
some pieces of music
and the smells — the back side of remembrance
The friends — not last nor least
the shape of children — including the mirror
their voices — now changed
the sound of footsteps — going away
and away — all the time
but now
that I look into their present
And English is around and behind
walking into the future
clinging to my elbow
telling me not to miss the turn of any corner
or smile
Pain has been an excellent teacher
on advising when to shut my mouth
or to pick up my pen
while English kept showing me
there’s more to the eye
before every step
and cry
English kept me alert
to sound and noise
the murmuring of its old words
my left ear always listening
and the closing of whatever bites
lurking through the trenches
between one ugly fang and the next
The open space came from there
here from — too and again
and that name : Vertigo
whirling around me and my things
few things — worth my while
Some things look old
some broken
the horizon seems nearer —
but this could just be my memory
and her absence
And so you see disorder
everywhere in disarray
but what I see — and hear — and feel
prays its distance
for it’s as sweet as the words of the clock
hanging on the wall
up and down my dreams
A story breaks out — I listen
words nobody else understands
noises below the heart of the ice
beats — beatings — tickings
a humming over the edge
What they see are my hands
bleeding in tongues
while I rough out my days
one word at a time
clear English thoughts — far from them
Second home — frequently first
under whatever lurks around
shielded by the passing of the years
so — too — perfected
for me — and your kindness
This time is old
and good — do not confuse yourself
I come and go from the past into the future
and back
I’m a bird in an island — a sparrowhawk
I regret nothing but letting your hand
go loose
Days have passed
and continue to run
I don’t care
Life is just a miracle
turn into threads of morality
I learnt to like walking on the side-lines
the air is cold and friendly
I have no ambition toward anywhere else
English opened these doors for me
and I am thankful :
not everyone gets to live in two different worlds
My feet have stories to tell
I don’t know if they will open up
but I can hear them
during the night
murmuring among them
their voices are just a few
in the middle of a larger chorus
and I attend to each at the same time
they are fond of me being there
and like to miss me when I’m not
Every heart lets in its blood
and lets it out
no heart can keep it inside but for a few seconds
there’s a lot to be learnt
from that constant beating
its unaware embracing
I’d like to tell you more
but I must leave now
I’m sailing into a new sea
green and blue and dark
just like time
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