When our sunsets and dawns

When our sunsets and dawns
curl up into a ball,
reduced to zero,
and the echo of farewells
reaches the limits
accessible to hearing,
The world will become
colorless, tasteless, soundless,
but a stupid passerby
will hardly notice
the gray snowstorms
in the eye sockets of the spirit.

And the Sun, as before,
will lie down in the canvases
of the traps of the easels.
Will I see you?
Through the clouds?
In the rays?
Or maybe a little higher –
you won’t be able to break
the vain vows given to them –
to descend no lower
than some sphere
from God on the roof...

And studying again
the taste of the colors and sounds
by touch – is it worthy?
Going crazy:
there is still your number
in the SIM card,
but who will answer me?
Waking up in the morning,
I’ll stumble over the thought:
neither sunsets nor dawns
my beloved will be meeting
together with me on the Earth
now on.

When you look into my eyes,
I draw for the memory
into the Universe’s piggy bank
your voice and gestures,
ideas and views,
all the shades – in Pantone,
so that later, having made
a stained-glass portrait of you,
astrally imperishable,
on our terrace,
chatting about different things,
drink coffee with your phantom.

November 26, 2003