What is it
that makes me save coins,
letters, repeating dreams, old hatreds?
Why does the cup remain full
and not empty itself?
I need to empty my suit, my shirt.
I need to open spaces in my soul,
empty my heart’s chambers.
I need not to collect and save,
but create a force from emptiness,
invite light into my darkness.
Tell eyes,
fill me with yourself.
Tell me how your life
teaches you to see.
I want all strangers’ eyes
to flood me with their secret knowledge,
so my rooms can be opened,
the shutters pushed aside,
all the old, used, hoarded things
moved out,
so I can change, grow.
I have given all the blood I have,
all the love, hope,
and now I have only words.
And I’m trying to give them away,
citing my conclusions, memories,
sorrows, streets and tables,
hands.
Everything that describes itself,
that lodged motionless on my tongue,
memoirs, poetry, humming,
so I can grow again.
Be formed differently,
and come back to all the dear things
that left their shadows on the walls.
And ask forgiveness
for any anguish I caused,
and love them again,
as if brand new.