JB, 2019
Nothing else but convention, but time
always flows and I can feel it passing
in my withering flesh, in the faces
of those who are ahead and so distant
The year gone took again many people,
few were born and my hope is so thin
like wrong violet grown in some winter
shrunken soon in the grey of its cold
This my evil chokes me and this heart
weeps embracing the fog that pervades
every motion and gesture, each thing.
Even here you don’t take me so far….
A lewd thought rises, hugs, envelops
me as if I were sweetness and girl.
A crow flies in the air made as pond,
indistinct dullness, and now I groan
Wars and death, pain, dismay and so on
doze this jaded, weak self within me
who yet neither rests nor stays awake.
Wash away blasphemy: she advances!
December, 31st 2022
The skin of the angels 