Where I live

When I went fishing, the sea seemed small and monotonous to me, 

and I quickly grew tired of the monotony of the fish and seaweed I caught.

Sometimes the sea seemed large to me: during a storm, 

when everything around me merged into one – 

the sea, the rain, the sky, and the shore.

My boat sank into this infinity mixed with the abyss.

Now I don’t have a boat.

I’m an old man, but no one will write a book about me,

No one will know about my sea stories and adventures.

Because I’m lying: nothing ever happened at this damned end of the world.

The biblical Leviathan or the mythical cachalot never swam to me:

Only loneliness swallowed me in its mouth.

And the waves…

No: I have nothing to say even about the waves.

And my shore…

Yes: my shore is divided into two.

The first reflection of my shore is loneliness.

The second reflection is solitude.

I don’t even remember the moment

When the surf washed away my name.

I don’t even remember the moment 

when the surf washed away my bones.

I am without myself: without name, without shores.

Perhaps I feel calm

And I no longer need my boat – my boat is like a fifth wooden paw for a monkey.

How much wood have we wasted on our planet,

How many fish have we caught in vain,

and how many times have we died – also in vain.

Someone still believes that their shore 

is a noisy beach full of visitors and expensive apartments.

But all shores are the same: all shores groan during the monsoon season –

It is the first cry of a newborn and the last breath of the dying.

Tomorrow the sun will rise and the sea will become the sea again,

The sea will become itself,

The sea will become a community –

The community we never became.

House

The little house lived under a huge sky

The crying sunbeams imprinted themselves on the glass

The glass imprinted itself in the silence of the sun
The little house died under a huge sky