Round the Round

   
There’s this moment
when you feel nothing
but it’s not the worst

the worst comes
when you stop feeling nothing
and want the world to stop with it

and it stops

   

   

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Everyone Is Running from Something

   

Only

some of us

run very slowly

   

   

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The sea

   

   

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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