We celebrate each apocalyptic solitary meeting.
You are lighter and bolder than a bird's wings, flying down two steps at a time.
The sheer dizziness led me through the damp lilac and into the mirror, your territory.
I find grace when night falls.
The door of the altar opened, your real body flashed in the dark, and I bowed slowly.
I wake up and say "Blessed" and I know this blessing is rash because you are still sleeping.
The lilacs on the table stretch out and touch your eyelids in celestial blue.
Your blue eyelids are peaceful and your hands are warm.
In the blockade of the crystal, the rivers are throbbing, the mountains and rivers are smoking, and the sea is shining.
You hold a crystal ball and sleep on the throne.
O just Lord! you are mine.
You wake up, transfiguration, our earthly, human speech.
My throat fills with new power, giving new meaning to "you", and now I call you "almighty".
Everything was deformed, even washbasins and pitchers.
We are raised and raised again.
The magic-built city separates before our eyes, like a mirage.
Mint paved our way. Birds escorted us, fish upstream, and the sky spread before us.
And fate follows, into our sobriety, like a madman wielding a razor.
Poem 2
I don't believe in omens, and I'm not afraid of bad omens.
I do not escape slander and poison.
There is no death.
We are immortal. All are immortal.
Don't be afraid to die at seventeen, and don't be afraid to die at seventy.
There is no darkness, no death, only truth and light.
We have reached the beach. When immortality arrives in batches, I am also the one who closes the net.
I have a house that won't collapse.
I summon a century at will, enter it, and build my house.
Thus, your wife and children share my dining table, which serves ancestors and descendants.
Our future is set today.
If I raise my hand, five rays of light will stop on you.
My bones are like pillars, supporting each day.
I use a ruler to measure the time. I travel through time like a mountain.
I choose a century based on my height.
We head south, kicking up dust in the prairie.
Weeds fall, a grasshopper touches a horseshoe, like a monk making a prophecy, threatening us with death.
I bind my destiny tightly to the saddle.
I stand up in the stirrups of the future like a child.
I am content with my immortality, my blood running for a century.
For a warm and safe corner, I am willing to surrender my life.
If life were a needle, it wouldn't pull me as fast as a thread.
Poem No. 3
People have a body, so lonely.
The soul loathes the thick coat: ears, eyes, buttons,
and the skin is only scars, the robes of the skeleton.
It rushed out of the cornea, flew to the holy spring, flew to the city, flew to the chariot of birds.
Through the prison fence it heard: the jubilation of the woods and meadows, the roar of the sea.
A soul without a body is like a body without clothes, not thoughts, actions, words and concepts.
An unanswered mystery: who will go back to dance where no one dances?
I dreamed of another soul, in another robe,
Passing through doubt to hope, like alcohol, burns without a shadow, and slips away,
leaving behind a souvenir: the cloves on the table.
Don't worry about poor Eurydice, child, and roll through life in a hoop, and
at every step you take, you'll hear the earth's answer, sweet, monotonous voice.
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