There is no inspiration whatsoever,
From my ink the voices no longer speak and no verses can be done.
Nobody comes out to wish me farewell, there are no blue colored petals around, and no journey takes place.
It is in the solitude of exile that I write nothing.
Outside there is a war taking place in distant worlds.
Men rebel against statues, fervent monsters made out of stone.
Cities fall one after another; their dead ones also fall in the drainage.
However, in my house nothing happens as I hopelessly search in an empty mass of ideas.
It is a time of death in this war, but it is revoltingly unknown to me.
I would like to write to you where I came from, where I was born, and when I saw you.
Nothing is born from my pen and is absurd to even think about it.
I would like to your ear, narrate the story of this world.
Not the one that falls into ruins, aflame as it passes through the window.
This world shall be the one that I build in your image as it stains these words.
The world that I think about, it is the one where your nameless memory confuses me painfully.
In which I have fallen asleep sobbing in dreams with no devil;
And ampoules grow out of my arm which break my bones into pieces.
Outside on the streets invaded by tearful echoes, there are the corpses of children.
Rats that devour their eyes, larva, and a militia with no flag, even tornadoes.
I don’t know how to describe it, for my eyes can only find leftovers.
Sometimes I write in old papers, but soon they are forgotten and begin to rot.
They become yellow and small, rolling out of the kitchen cabinets
Some of them putrid, green, saying nothing
Others, cry, scream, and sob, in despair words of silly and ungrateful love
Divulging:
“I love you when everything has turned monochrome
When the veins in my neck have swollen to the point that blood gets injected into my eyes
I love you in the days when nobody finds you,
And that one time you learned my name, yes that time I also loved you”
Then it all goes back to oblivion.
There is nothing in this life that I haven’t told you about.
Ignoring it, my pen shakes wishfully to find you once again
To tell you a hundred times more “I love you” without ending my prudence
It is all in vain, in my mind only memories come out.
In this world where armies have been dispersed
They go to the mountains where they live and eat each other.
Some are men, others are beast, some idols that proclaim new regimens.
These are also devoured by monsters from faraway lands.
Knocking at my door at midnight, from my comatose state, from my dream they want to separate me.
They shattered glass, ripped the entrance with their fingers
Their dirty claws covered in blood are pushing my stomach as if it was common meat
The poisonous tongues that taste the socket of my eyes, my neck
They’re mundane sketches from the underworld, who snatch the verses from my hands
Your stolen world is hanging in the wind, printed on the amputated pieces of torn papers.
At three in the morning this piece of paper has been given to me.
My mind does nothing but to hang on to this time with no minutes.
To this course without trail in which I write you this verse
Nothing else matters, for today I know nothing, nor anything exist in between these lines.
The nothing crosses the ocean, the tree is no longer it, the aunts no longer climb, and no rain falls.
Nobody contents my letters, nobody relaxes, nobody cares and nobody does anything to howl.
From my verses only silence sprouts...
It is a tremendous bastard in which nor you or I could hear each other, but one in which both of us remain quiet.
~~~
This translated poem is dedicated: To the man who easily brings me inspiration with the power of just simple but profound words. To the one who easily takes it all away in the same way, and who changes my empty nights filled with solitude.
~~
Thank you for reading
