INTERPRETATION Of course, We all could condone any vitriol Spilt on the rifts of the long hibernation. The flesh seems fresh than conjoined For those who want to believe it. You see it banal from the space Between your index and thumb. The night is blank sentence, Projected perfectly onto the medulla oblongata Where The vector of light pokes the horizon To trace the core of the cross. HAPPY BIRTHDAY The top layer swanks creamy Decorated with an arty-farty cut lemon body Ornated and candied, More aesthetic than functional. Nobody knows and wouldn’t ask If some hours ago The acid juice splashed its hangman’s pink skin, Innocent, Seeking dormant wounds To nip. ADVENT I try to imagine my curbed ego, The marking commas, the restrictive brackets. I knew the coin’s been already thrown For a voice which grammar has many cogent rules. The new beginning would be inky, Far from all those pastel-painted frames With empty rooms fostering pastorali In stuffed poultry hearts. The real blood never puts artless colors on its pride. From the chandelier fell too much of words Keeping silence about the profit of being mortal. I tried to discern the salt in the wound, bugs on the face Worn promises, Holly knowledge. I regret losing my taboos in remission of sins But the new me still has time to slip into my old Long haired coat Because the snappish winter is coming close. REVIVAL Morning is tiptoeing over to the window Like a cat Descending the tree of wishes Head first To see all ghosts off Too modest in their self-knitted hats And backs heavy with the weight of the tenderness. Interjections wait woven into the soggy day. Lungs implore more oxygen. Movements set a Morse code rhythm Flirt with coffee steam Dance under the wind’s baton On the garnished with fine mica flakes pavement. From the crowd’s sleepy orbits Protrude huge, perplexed, yesterday‘s question- marks. CORROSION IS IN FASHION We are charming in ochre, scarf-styled, Radiating that exceptional dress sense While fall is parading its paradigms. The warmth of gold is already proven Out of time arguments When the taste for art mimics the lack of logic In the global language. Sometimes we wonder If the closed societies undergo attitudinal changes. In fact, silk on wool presents fond delusion in rainy days. That world’s hurly-burly, A storage of nonsense we use to feed scraggy wars Pretending that they’re somewhere far In order to satiate our nonchalance And quell any inner disturbances. Happy hypocrites we are If believe in the grace of the swan neck Garlanded with luxurious plumage. Beneath the camouflage— the wormy throat.