(cyclonization in perihelion)
Wild sun, you throw my dark shadow
from the no-world into this world.
Burning shield over the Altay peaks!
On evenings, I see horsemen in the steppe,
yellow insects which grind the hard sea
of grass. With a raging scream, yet
blooms the autumn, with a silent scream
you hide yourself off my eyes. You are cutting
a crack into my apex – the tamga, a sharp beam,
creeps into me raising dust, makes me to hang.
Savage light, slaughter of solitudes, the blood
which jets out of apex. In my hand,
I am holding a flash, steel, fingers are sticky
of marrow and blood. How you burn, still
I am just a cry, from all sides to all sides
thrown out, never begun, never
finished. Desert, roof. Glowing sand
swirls into the sky, across the sight of blades
which run from the no-side to the other side.
Broken jug. Nothingness. Only you. You.
Cruel flash, stab me into the ground! Make me
to be a grain, drip, pure spirit of matter.
Crash into my core, let the shudder
celebrate orgies. I see the seamen, happy
horsemen, happy priests with their
bloody heads. Axis, angelic howling
of wings. The masons of time are waving
into the wall. A deer troats. Mushrooms thunder.
You are flat, healthy, good, whole. From the book
of dream, an atom divides itself: the sun, the whip, the day.
I saw the light, I saw the day. In the
desert appears the master, like
a pearl of shadow. And gives order and always
pays off everything. I saw the light, I saw
the bottom. In narrow streets, chamber-pots,
in the dark and fog, in harbours, at
railway-stations where it is always full
of people, meaningless departures, arrivals,
directions from nowhere to nowhere,
calls, whistles, fairground of despair.
I saw your hand: fragile
bones of your fingers under the milky glove
of skin. A polished business man.
A man from the world of glass façades,
concrete fences, aluminium, steel,
boastful offices, carpets which
dampen down the steps. When you stepped
on the sun, you covered with black glasses
your eyes filled up with blood.
And in your pocket you grabbed a cold pistol.
From the cellar's bottom, the cage upwards only:
you kill your father or your mother,
you are the third. Whoever hears
the waves of salt once, never forget
them. Muddy river of childhood, above
the city stands the lavra. In the lavra, Laura
still lets rooms, still in your rotten
memory there are stuck thighs, the smell of fish.
You shot at the mirror and fell into your own
blood. And the cage runs up: without end to bottom.