Matercula
 
I'm talking to you,

offering you the withered memories of better days,

the sharp memories of the last months

and the pain of current existence

as my gifts, my apology;

the rain of this dark evening,

the disappointments of this

descending life,

the squirrel running up the fir tree,

the blond cat sitting in the broken window

of the red garage,

the muddy paw prints of the dog

on the newspapers spread on the floor

of the entryway -

I offer all of these.

The gray clouds above are yours,

the water rushing in the stream are yours,

the dirty snow lingering here and there,

it's all yours,

all what my eyes can see,

all that my consciousness can admit,

it's all yours, it's all yours,

like the flickering flame

in your gravestone lamp.

05.05.2013