Bezpłatny fragment - The Calling of Angels

The Calling of Angels

Cultivated tenderness

of unchanging matters.

The stillness of forces with which

I am on familiar terms.

A microcosm breaks free within me—

a body too composed

to be taught existence.

Absence, such a painful absence of solitude!

I press my sorrow

to your tears — I seek

my own trajectories,

illusions, betrayals.

Perhaps I will learn to love

in secret; today it is but an empty renunciation,

a light dimmed by night.

Scratch, tear open

my time down to the marrow!

Let noon strike

a blow against evening.

I long for you like a poem

I once committed

at an uncommon hour.

I am too composed

to please the memories.

Silence? Let it remain,

so long as the angels’ calling can be heard.

Across the River

Light-sensitive clay, a heart out of tune!

Are you here to dream me

a lighter morning?

Or do you need silence

to hush away the pain?

I sneak, I seep into your skin—

it is unbearable.

I will find among the thoughts the one

that has a chance to become a word.

Perhaps tomorrow

will teach me to dream

without remorse.

Perhaps time will squander itself,

stand across the river.

Do not teach me to adore

against the grain of passion.

Do not show me how many tears it takes

to earn a longing.

Perhaps I will be late

for my own birth, I do not know.

Yet I am certain: a heart,

clenched into a fist, will beat on.

Perhaps prudence will teach me

to shine and to believe

that keeping one’s word

is only a relative thing.

Pale Future

I am the very same creature

that wept for the vanishing

of the last human.

I am the identical idyll

in which even the greatest doubters

place their disbelief.

Pain, vast fields of fear—

will I ever learn

what adulthood means?

Or perhaps I will stumble upon

a ticket back

to childhood?

I shall slay you with a few

sweeping words — unable to believe

my very thoughts.

I will erase the future, renounce

my soul; do not feel me

upon your tightened skin.

Perhaps it is the light that proves

one must not trust the void,

must not carry the cosmos

in one’s pocket?

Perhaps the absence of faith

in dawn

will point the proper roadside?

I am certain

that life bites greedily — perhaps

in spite of the pale future.

Prodigal Rain

I was frightened by my own dreams.

I flee from the beating of my heart.

What flaw lies upon your cheek?

Perhaps eternal light

will teach me

to read from the end.

I join you in the void.

I share your shadow, painfully deep

this evening.

Perhaps I will learn

how to take a step into the abyss.

I uncover my senses before you—

let them be a splendid excuse.

Or perhaps the lack of pretext

teaches me to shine properly?

Please, teach me to weep in a way

that no one will trust the tears.

Perhaps I will sink

somewhere halfway on the road for bread.

It is not impossible that I will learn

to dream against the predictions

of the last prophet.

I believe I will dream a wind

that will chase away barren clouds,

revive the prodigal rain.

Everything in Its Own Time

I dedicated to you the weather forecast

from the day before yesterday.

I entrusted to you the dusk,

the one everyone awaits.

Perhaps an illusion

will become a chance to shine once more.

Do not let prayers

end with the same word;

perhaps the return to the body

will prove the greater surprise.

I do not love you unequivocally,

everything in its own time.

The clouds are gathering.

Will the angels have mercy

upon the sky?

Or will the lack of wings

free them from disordered tears?

Come, understand the presence

of unearthly signs.

Dream, like freshly washed mist,

settles on the lips, loses itself.

Green thoughts found their outlet in despair—

I will not perish, so long as you feed me

with your milk.

I will not create for you

a personal calendar.

I will not conceive a body

that is dusk, playing with the day.

Hyenas

I try on, again and again,

the same smile — a hyena’s.

Human gazes bow to the sky.

A man, robbed

of conscience, becomes sustenance

for what does not exist.

What is life, if the body

assumes the same forms forever?

Does insatiability mean

loneliness,

only conceived too early?

The whole shape of illusions teaches

how to love little by little.

The senses lack affliction, silence—

another castle built of sand.

I am reborn

on the far side of light—

a shadow covers me with breath.

Perhaps the future will teach

how to denounce eternity?

Your glow torments me — fleeting

as the precedence of signs,

the mercy of spacetime.

Fleeting are the mists, woven

from your glances into the unknown.

It is surrender, desire, and passion,

nothing more.

How One Should Live

Crucified in youth, submerged

in a journey beyond the margins.

Delivered to heaven

on a platter — I feel the night

splinter within me.

The strength with which I carry myself

resonates with the echo

of humanity.

I am the body pursued

by choirs of angels,

the one the lost lean toward.

I am no example

of how one should live; frail are your shoulders,

frailer still the heart.

Washed of sleep, consecrated

to truth, I sway beneath the ceiling,

where the last cry

has withered.

Perhaps the future will render

eternity fit for consumption?

A tangle of events, a dough of words—

the same old fable,

for which one can live meekly.

Are you a miracle-worker,

with whom one may love for life?

I flee

from union—

too many thoughts, too many dreams

that were meant to follow me.

Conceived in Chaos

Dark Messiah! Faint are

the heavens, inscribed

by your noble hand.

Empty tears, still threaded

upon the fingers, conceived in chaos.

Straightforward are the sorrows

I borrowed out of season.

Tight, unbearably tight

your thoughts — they crowd forever,

rushing the other way.

Is it solid ground, or silence

that feeds me mismatched tears?

I cannot love

against the fate’s defiance—

fear is too tender,

too relentless.

Dark Messiah, whence comes such poison

in the eyes of friends?

Whence such refinement

in the silence of those who rush through life?

I do not wish

to be a blank page,

your farewell letter.

Perhaps I will be sated by the same fable—

the one you, Dark Messiah,

condemned to defeat.

Pale Heart

I came with the wrong expression;

time bows low.

The pressure of words

is too immense — fertile

proved today’s stars.

I sink into a world

that harmonizes with the boundless—

pale is your heart.

I shop at the same season.

I lay myself at the feet of sleep,

perishing with truth upon my lips.

Perhaps the shapeless

fate will teach me to live

without command?

Within me stirs repentance — drowsy,

condemned to life imprisonment.

Please, bestow

a smile so yielding to joy,

that I forget about life.

Before I bend beneath defeat,

before the dreadful rain pours—

I will wake in an ill-suited hell.

Heaven keeps sending me

the same angel; is it the call,

is it the tears that feed me hope?

Perhaps I shall learn

to live at dawn.

Perhaps I will close the window behind me.

The Local Man

You arrived out of season,

everything already swept

under the rug.

You returned, though you know:

the naked feet of sleepwalkers

do not wander here.

Can the future ever become

as lofty?

Though my heart can hear you,

thoughts must be persuaded

of desire’s endurance.

I am not

a word jotted down by chance—

to preserve melancholy

one needs a little more sleep.

I know the body yearns for a soul—

tears grow too vast.

Perhaps I will learn

your face by heart.

Perhaps I will resurrect time, so that time

might sometimes recall me.

Memories are unnatural.

Estranged is the mind

that constantly requires penance.

I would like to understand your longing.

To feel indifference, so well known

to the local man.

Whims of Silence

I look around, searching for light

among the remnants of dreams.

I gaze into nothingness,

so it might become my guide.

I remembered that hope is born

when air itself runs out.

The future appeared—

too humble to accuse it of betrayal.

I accuse myself of naivety.

I agree with God

that I do not belong to my own life.

Am I a demanding beginning,

or merely a trivial ending—

no one knows.

Will solitude teach me

how to love wisely, without guilt?

I cannot become a storm,

transform into a dream; all

that is lost belongs to me.

And when a tear dreams itself to me,

when the earth slips away — I shall return

on trial, against the whims of silence.

In My Own Body

It is not worth seeking tomorrow

amid trivial matters. It does not pay

to shine, when the light is already so bright.

Perhaps the future will make me

yield to sleep? Perhaps indifference

will let me bloom

in the heart of winter?

I cannot remain forever

an introduction to the past. I do not wish to exist

in such a way that the awakened envy me.

I have imprisoned myself within my own body.

I have closed behind me

a black window.

Dawn overflows within me, speckled

with the remnants of scarlet stars.

It is impossible for me to depart

without a complaint. I savor the melancholy

I have inherited

as a form of recompense.

Is it death, or is it eternity—

who knows the final answer?

Who remembers how many words it takes

to rouse a thought from slumber?

The Tenderest Epitaph

I exist, though my fertile, fruitful body

bears grievances against the soul. I exist,

even as I wrestle

for the last fragment of time.

Perhaps I shall be reborn, defying

love’s adversities?

For surely I cannot

love endlessly — what says God of this?

I run, though life itself

has fallen behind. I seek you,

though the calendar denies

its own promises.

I hear desires crumbling—

maimed, yet still truthful.

The future has erased me

from its schedule.

What remains of memory

goes by the name

of common sense.

Still I lack the certainty

that what is too bright

need not resemble hope.

I cross the same river again—

turn the page,

and inscribe my tenderest epitaph.

Black Rivers

It is not worth relying on remorse.

It does not pay to love so much

that hope turns into humility.

I open before you

a window to freedom — with my touch I test

whether a human still remains in me.

Crimson stars assail me;

I did not expect this

from these wanderings beyond the horizon.

I establish new streets, empty and aching

like a shadow that has chosen me

for its master.

Behind which wall does dusk conceal itself?

What must be done, for the black rivers

to overflow their banks?

Only yesterday I dreamt of the future;

today memory is too poor

to please the past.

All illusions sank

midway through desire.

Still I delight in the night,

still I steal away words

too lofty to recognize longing.

I will find in you the mortal, I will find the dream,

so that time may also belong to me.

To Deceive the Enemy

Heaven is near enough

for me to dream

another blasphemous melancholy.

The earth, caressing bare ankles,

is a prison for bodies,

for words

that turned into truth.

Perhaps the future will grant me

a glimpse of your presence

in my arms?

I do not know how long one must live

before death proves merciful.

I still feel your presence — you became

the creator of desires.

It is high time to stand in line,

to discover

how many smiles it takes

to deceive the enemy.

Will dawn turn out to be an idyllic prelude

to adulthood? Will a tale,

told without much skill,

teach me how to live

without disturbing the world?

I am stranded somewhere within the past—

only longing can

satiate me. Silence,

to which I entrust my death.

Both Sides of the World

I searched for you on both sides of the world.

I searched relentlessly,

against the will of God.

I knew that every road

led in the same direction—

I suffered, though life

refused to lend me its hand.

I do not know if the body longed

for the soul — the dream was too wise

to dare dream of happiness.

I loved sorrow sincerely,

yet you chose another time. I cannot

trust freedom,

its face still drowning in shadow.

Perhaps the future will make us

yield to touch?

Perhaps time will repeat itself,

though eternity

waits with folded arms?

Do not dream in my name.

Do not love the world, though uncertainty

binds us in pairs.

I will depart, though I was assured

that truth does not belong to me.

I strike from life’s almanac everything

I once had the courage to silence.

Promise me a trace of emptiness,

so that death may prove more merciful.

The Birth of Hope

Why do I still savor

the same, thin illusion?

Why do I see in you, with such fierceness,

the cause of love?

Perhaps I have poisoned myself

with an autumn morning;

the body has set

its final condition.

I promise I will finish my autobiography.

I swear

I will miss the light

that still struggles to breathe.

It is unbelievable that hope

has hatched within me.

Even worse, that the sleeplessness

of dreams has infected me as well.

I have never learned

to count the stars. Everything

that was squandered serves as an explanation;

the purity of words irritates

my thoughts.

It is not worth believing in mornings

without an ending. Before God’s gaze

pierces me,

I will see in you the continuation

of my faith.

And yet… May I borrow

your embrace? Will you allow me

to dwell in this joy?

Awakening the World

My Dark Messiah, I feel you.

I know you are there — hidden among the streets

where my memory once used to wander.

I hear the beating of your heart,

though everyone swears you remained

a fleeting half-shadow.

I am terrified, I am aroused

by your presence in my dream.

Do you return

to resurrect the night?

Or is it because tears flow so freely?

I do not know which way to turn;

toward the spring,

where hope blossoms in wild abundance?

Or will I find myself in your arms,

so unaccustomed to warmth?

I lock my eyelids tight,

to sense you clearly

with the rest of my being.

I focus on the words,

whispered by my thoughts.

Do you know? I will find you, Dark Messiah.

I will seek you where they once spoke

of the last of men,

of the love that will awaken the world from its sleep.

Sightseeing Tour

Dark Messiah, I know you have returned.

You haunted my dreams the whole of yesterday;

this morning dedicated itself

solely to longing and expectation.

And yet, you are here,

though heaven collides with earth,

and from the ceiling fall

the last of angels, while God contemplates

a sightseeing tour through purgatory.

You are here, Dark Messiah—

I understand your fear, I understand

the borrowed life that presses itself upon you.

Take my hand — it shall be witness

that love does not die

by accident.

I long to uncover the promise

that will ignite your kisses

upon my temples,

that will embrace me when I cross

for the last time the line of life.

Alleluia! Time has risen!

It is high time to plead

for dreams, to renounce wounds.

And though I wake in mid-sentence,

though I breathe in light-and-shadow — find

within me your memory,

a heart condemned to life imprisonment.

Loving Too Late

Dark Messiah, with a soul veiled

by eternal shadow!

Are you here to feed the conscience?

Have you found the path that leads

beyond the boundaries of the universe?

I am desire,

I am the vow that all that is wondrous

must end too soon.

My Dark Messiah,

so humble, so hidden! I cannot hear

the footsteps of your thoughts.

Do you still evade the dreams

for which it is sometimes worth

going on?

I clench the fist of my heart — fragile are the tears,

bereft of radiance,

forgotten, absurd…

I cannot hear the rustle of your hands,

I do not know which way

time has run — I will receive you, Dark Messiah,

though you do not understand

your own shadow, though you love,

yet always too late.

Naked to the Bone

I return, though my body

remained on the other side of the sky.

I have found myself, though someone

unfastened my wings and left me naked,

bare to the bone.

For many years I longed for life—

it came at the wrong time,

skirting happiness.

As every night,

I find my shadow in your arms;

as always, I hurry

to offer you

the last beat of my heart.

Somewhere I lost the final witness

of childhood — surrendered to tomorrow,

resurrected against the sun,

a complaint against death.

I wish the universe would nestle

inside a tear; that the void filling

the mind would strip away its smile,

its melancholy, which so imperceptibly

one may encounter.

I will likely step into hell,

it will be on the way.

It’s been long since I last

spoke to anyone.

Susceptible to Tenderness

Tonight I counted the stars—

it wasn’t far, I only had to

open the window wider.

Time broke in—

it had been waiting

for this all along.

I feel a splinter beneath my eyelid — elsewhere

it turns out to be a tear, only lifeless.

Lips, unaccustomed to screaming,

today remain nothing but a keepsake

of the words they once birthed,

before I got stuck

midway through the future.

You are, you reveal yourself, though no one

admits to your guilt.

A single thought is enough to quench the thirst

of those who have dwelled in silence too long.

Forgive me,

I am unprepared for the night.

Forgive the unwitting kisses that cling

to your too-wide mouth.

I squeeze through

the keyhole, the ache of a whisper

has grown susceptible to tenderness.

Inflammation of the Heart

Again I misuse words,

the kind I never expected from you.

Anger peers from behind the wall,

to make sure I’ve awakened from life.

I do not believe in heaven’s overprotection—

the earth is soaked with tears.

I turn

around a foreign axis — I rise above the scraps

of cities, above the clouds,

swollen with grief.

I scream, I drown in a cry for fear;

some force has made

my time grow accustomed

to the past.

I’ve arranged a modest tête-à-tête

with death; we need to discuss

our plans for the future.

An inflammation has entered my heart,

it’s time to go home.

Perhaps twilight will give birth to the epilogue

of yet another autobiography? Perhaps adulthood

will confirm the belief

that even heaven comes at a price?

To Become Longing

I am life, belated

for its own return.

I am like tears that lack the courage

to flow into the distance.

I decline your time

through cases — that which we call memory

belongs to no one.

I slip to the other side of the rainbow.

I long to stir in you a love

so easily deceived.

I cry out, striving to drown the silence

that has turned into roads of hatred.

I shall remain here, clothed

only in the sky; I will find a moment

that does not impose itself.

I depart to those realms where man

is known only through dreams.

I close myself to the light,

for which I might transform

into longing.

Dusk? It is but a delusion for those

who doubt too greedily.

Another Mistake?

Though the day falls apart into shreds,

though night arrives

dressed in festive mourning—

I dream of love.

I long for the warmth your touch bestows.

I slam the door to purgatory behind me—

only a faded dream remains.

Hands, once prepared

for multiplication tables, now rest

upon the light.

I cannot teach you to love at dawn—

too-early words

cling to the palate. I resurrect

a shadow within myself, let penance

become delight.

I will not feed you with stars—

the night is too greedy. I rise

on the wings of melancholy,

up there, among the guardians.

Now I know how one should weep.

How to dream, so as to confess guilt.

This body. Nothing more? Or perhaps…