Balta Alba

The offish C of yesterday
Raised the wanton O of today-
Laced combination of modernism and ancientry-
A joint venture of human whispers
Silenced like the dying plankton
By the saint lake that holds the birth and the mashing rights
Of our transient joy.

The silence is everywhere;
Since fish don’t need to mimic, nor practice its ways
In a world where telepathy feels jelly and cold,
Where the silver rain that washes out the arched bridge above
Is devoid of meanings...

A plain of sand is our hut,
The order of magnitude of its room
Depicting an ocean with round, wide corners,
Where dissolved feelings flood every window,
Pure like hermetical crystals unable to murmur or shout like lovers,
Sheltered by the water surface which mirrors the upper life
Where the blue air kills...

- to Mr. Teodor I A
26.02.2013

as a response to:

"I Like to Live With Hermits" -- by Nicholas Samaras

Let me practice silence with you.

You have an extra room in your hut
and a wooden balcony overlooking a ravine of moonlight.

I can sleep in this bare corner, on the floor-planks
with a blanket and a stone for a pillow.

We can work on our separate projects in each other’s shadow.

Let us develop telepathy, and I will hand you pepper for your soup
without looking up.
We could chant together only in Vespers, and separate
afterward into the gloom.

Let me sit on this rickety balcony, while silver rain falls, the blue air
gone wispy with another century.

Let me live in this corner and you won’t notice me.

Let me be the ghost with eyes, tonsured with the wordless.

Let me practice stillness with you.

Neither of us here.