Balconies I am not a shepherd
a myrtle grove stream and clouds are not for me
banished Arcadian only balconies remain
I must look at the roofs as if they were open sea
where a long complaint of sinking ships is smoking
what is left for me what the cry of mandolins
a short flight and fall to the stony bottom
where one waits among gaping spectators for the tide of eternity
giving in return a bit of blood
this is not what I was waiting for no it isn't youth
to stand with the head in bandages and clasp one's hands
saying foolish heart bird that is shot
stay here at the precipice sweet peas
and nasturtiums are in the green box
the evening wind comes from trimmed gardens
a sea breeze with dandruff on its collar a lame storm
plaster sifts onto the deck a balcony's deck
my head in plaster a remnant of rope like a wisp of hair
I stand in the stony seriousness of senile elements
yes O clock my poison this will be the only journey
a journey by ferry to the other bank of the river
there is no shadow of the sea no shadow of islands
only shadows of those who are dear to us
yes only a journey by ferry only a ferry at the end
O balconies what pain the beggars are singing at the bottom
and their lamentation is joined by a voice
a voice of reconciliation before the journey by ferry
—forgive me I did not love you enough
I wasted my youth looking for real gardens
and real islands in the waves' thunder
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