—What kind of place is that?
—This is the ground where my forefathers
are buried, but why it's painted in red, I do not know.
—What kind of place is that?
—This is the original junk yard. You can find here
remains of the first comet, the first man, scraps from
the last supper, but why there is s sign saying,
"Population—0", I do not know.
—What kind of place is that?
—This is the starting point for emperors, popes, kings
and presidents. But why the throne is covered in gold
and decaying from within, I do not know.
—What kind of place is that?
—These are our cemeteries.
Here is the cemetery for the white.
Here is the cemetery for the black.
Here is the cemetery for the Jews.
—What kind of place is that?
—This is the space of the eternal silence, of the deafening
stillness, of the universal calmness and peace,
but why all we hear is the sound of distant hammering,
why?
I.
There are no men and no women.
The chaos is inside us all.
Themis is more than blind, and the scales
in her left hand are vulgar.
No skies, no kids.
String of days like a train
entering the tunnel of the darkest night.
I would like to say:
"Farewell foolish, little objects!"
The earless and the eyeless celebrate
their minor victories.
While kings with forgotten names
sleep in their majestic tumuli—forsaken and
accursed with the sweetest damnation!
But what about my right hand?
Now...
Holding the glass, like some holy scepter,
as the world keeps on turning, going nowhere
with all the insignificant things upon it.
Maybe there is some hope?
II.
We are all blind men,
searching for a candle that was never lit.
Gods, idols, apostles, crusaders, stones
and stakes, and lions. Such a lovely horror show!
It is not my fault;
I didn't raise my hand!
There is one cross,
where Buddha is laughing.
III.
My blood is my blood,
but there is nothing else!
No yesterday; no tomorrow;
just this endless today running in my bloodstream.
No shade, a little bit of sun—
keeping us warm just enough to endure it all.
IV.
Into the greatest eclipse of the everlasting truth,
I will be here—dancing with the meek and the demented!
Waiting for the
eternal stupidity,
waiting for the times when the hours and the stars
will be ours.
V.
No!
I don't want them, if I can't share them.
These tears, this lovely pain...
Yes!
Like the first pioneers,
we will dance around the camp fire until the sky collapses,
thick and greasy like molasses.
VI.
We will be in stupor.
Lying down,
dressed in garments,
made from scraps of the same sky.
VII.
It is dark now. And God is somewhere else.
The bottle cannot make it any brighter. And hell is hot.
It is nice enough that we understand these things;
it is clever enough that we can sing, with our souls
flapping on the very branch where even the high oriole is, oh, high it is, indeed!
Like Sisyphus we keep on going with the rocks in our
brains. There are no cracks in Time, precious Time,
because we know that it will never end.
Humanity?
Lost it!
VIII.
And now, there is nothing wrong about the snake.
There is no ugliness in the spider, the roach
or the rat.
Nature is perfect,
without us.
All that is impure is hidden within the man.
We got our thumbs.
So?
What did we make out of this?
First we've made clubs to beat
our brothers down,
then we stuck the thumbs up.
And now we are voting.
IX.
Now,
three women walk by my window, on the sidewalk
among the trees, and the squirrels, one after another,
the sunlight shining in their hair, on the tops of their
fingers, in their eyes; they are dressed in grey robes
with crosses hanging on their necks; they walk slowly,
now they are gone, and I lean down again, sweating
on the next absurdity, wondering why is all so quiet.
X.
No more me and no more you!
Adagio for the summer rock
and it rolls under the pebbles like
a snake biting its own tale.
Time...
Over!
Peycho Kanev is the Editor-In-Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 600 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Hawaii Review, The Monarch Review, The Coachella Review, DMQ Review, Black Market Review, The Cleveland Review, In Posse Review, Mascara Literary Review and many others. Peycho Kanev has won several European awards for his poetry and he is nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poetry collection Bone Silence was released in September 2010 by Desperanto Publishing Group. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by Desperanto Publishing Group in 2012.
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