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Wall clock with a blue wing
*
on this wall since I was a kid I have drawn painful butterflies
ends of journeys and defeated people.
the need to part was always stronger
than the kiss.
the wall was a giant cinema canvas
that had to be filled out with heroes.
in the middle of it there was the blue clock.
I wandered the pages of books
I crossed the mountains with shepherds
I ran away from,
I fell in,
and each time I returned to the wall.
on it I raised wild goats, I played the ox horns
I caressed snake skins.
it felt like somebody was looking at me from beyond the wall
and this was good, I was not alone.
but the clock with a blue wing was silent.
later I gave birth to a leaden egg. alone and empty,
perfectly round I have kept it in my head. a magic lantern,
the friend of the clock with a blue wing. I listened
to autumn violins
their ticking creating a few gardens
the rustling of my mum's dresses.
fantastic gardens in which the most special fruit was death.
I liked its perfume that was coming from beyond
from the place where everything seemingly began.
but the clock with a blue wing was silent.