The blue space weeping in the nets of fishermen.

In the big glass the hearts of a remote Easter bleeds.

It may be said that it is the air scooping another air to be drunken.

But,

hear what the low sky says.

It is just like an abysmal well, in which the books flame,

when whipped by lightening or in whose heaven a black hole glitters.

In order to reveal its blooming ruins,

granite pillars sway in the hands of boon and boring.

Beneath,

under,

the low plane of zodiac,

the angels of decay get drowsy.

Brothers are being rotten on beds.

I hear it.

I hear the solitude holding its bells to awaken the solitude.

And the smaller void bows down to the lager void and says to it:

father,

I’m exhausted.

Why should I liken it but I couldn’t?

I likened it, formerly, as a scream that repeats itself in a funeral.

I realized, after being too late, that it was my own funeral and the fine dust itself can replace me if I complain.

Then I likened it as blackness on whiteness till I was afraid that I might be your black crow.

Should I say it is a blue flame?

Yes,

I find, in my mind, a firebrand of it.

But,

someone else has kindled the tenets of prophets.

Never will I liken it with death.

I set for death many tables and many loaf of bread.

Still it keeps its eye on me.

Hear the sky;

it is you.