The frontiers infiltrated into me
like a ray of light
into the eyes of a slaughtered deer.
My gaze was sailing on rainwater
in empty flowerpots,
memories were driving through my breast
to chase away left-over words. Even my cough
was a call to someone who is gone.
I was able to sleep on benches of fragile evidence,
to sympathize with flags that flutter without a wind
and not to live out the perfection
of the forgotten. I was able to keep silent
although I’ve never seen an icon
of a saint with a finger to his lips.
