Sky, earth, cloud.
The name of the birds.
Star.
The name of the cat.
Oxygen.
The very essence of all loves—of the fires within us that have ignited a thousand times over and turned to ash just as often. We have walked away.
We have forsaken our homeland.
Left first motherless, then fatherless. Clearly,
We have long since been forgotten...
A ghostly ancient city, a street of lost souls—hidden deep within me, in the ache of my heart...
I am a mountain slope in spring, pulling its green blanket over itself, carefree as a child’s heart...
Lego buildings made of prayer cards and vitamin boxes lie before me...
Now, who will cradle my head, who will hold me close, who will breathe in the scent of my hair as if I were made of their own flesh—tell me...
Tell me, so I may run at once to the skirts of those utopias...
I wouldn't pause for even a second, believe me...
Sky, earth, cloud.
The name of the birds.
Star.
The cat's name.
Oxygen.
The middle name of all those aching breaths, and of the hidden tears buried in salt-stained cheeks—preserved so they wouldn't spoil or go foul.
We have been cast into the deep, dark well of loneliness.
We have been frightened by the starless darkness of a life devoid of dreams.
"Pitch-black" is the name of the secret notebook I keep within...
Living is a nest, you see;
The time to fly south has long since come for those who raised us;
Yet we—we still haven't grown up.
You looked deep into my heart as you cradled my face and eyes in your hands, As if to say, "Don't worry, I will protect you from every season, from the cold, and from those killer snows with their innocent gaze"...
You looked at me...
Nothing else mattered; it never did...
Let the palaces be yours; for me, loving is enough, my love.
Unlike anyone else...
Sky, earth, cloud.
The name of the birds.
Star.
The cat's name.
Oxygen.
The middle name of all the graves that have died within my chest until now,
Of all those lines—that legacy of love—clutched in departed hands,
Of those gazes—steeped in magic, rubbed with the secret of that sacred first moment and the unknown...
Does every breath have a name, my love? Does every wound, every scab dried in blood,
Every ache, every pang of suffering have a name?
Does every glance, or every smile—in distinct moments and joys—
Does every kiss of yours have a name, for instance, my love?
For the moment is different, the feeling is different, the level is different...
They wouldn't understand even if you explained, anyway, but...
Never mind,
Or,
If you were to let it go,
Let it be enough that *we* know; my love... After all, isn't this life—this act of living—still and always so wonderfully, "çiçimamatoştik"-whimsically peculiar-...
10.17—whose name do these dreams bear?
The name of the birds.
Star.
The name of the cat.
Oxygen.
The very essence of all loves—of the fires within us that have ignited a thousand times over and turned to ash just as often. We have walked away.
We have forsaken our homeland.
Left first motherless, then fatherless. Clearly,
We have long since been forgotten...
A ghostly ancient city, a street of lost souls—hidden deep within me, in the ache of my heart...
I am a mountain slope in spring, pulling its green blanket over itself, carefree as a child’s heart...
Lego buildings made of prayer cards and vitamin boxes lie before me...
Now, who will cradle my head, who will hold me close, who will breathe in the scent of my hair as if I were made of their own flesh—tell me...
Tell me, so I may run at once to the skirts of those utopias...
I wouldn't pause for even a second, believe me...
Sky, earth, cloud.
The name of the birds.
Star.
The cat's name.
Oxygen.
The middle name of all those aching breaths, and of the hidden tears buried in salt-stained cheeks—preserved so they wouldn't spoil or go foul.
We have been cast into the deep, dark well of loneliness.
We have been frightened by the starless darkness of a life devoid of dreams.
"Pitch-black" is the name of the secret notebook I keep within...
Living is a nest, you see;
The time to fly south has long since come for those who raised us;
Yet we—we still haven't grown up.
You looked deep into my heart as you cradled my face and eyes in your hands, As if to say, "Don't worry, I will protect you from every season, from the cold, and from those killer snows with their innocent gaze"...
You looked at me...
Nothing else mattered; it never did...
Let the palaces be yours; for me, loving is enough, my love.
Unlike anyone else...
Sky, earth, cloud.
The name of the birds.
Star.
The cat's name.
Oxygen.
The middle name of all the graves that have died within my chest until now,
Of all those lines—that legacy of love—clutched in departed hands,
Of those gazes—steeped in magic, rubbed with the secret of that sacred first moment and the unknown...
Does every breath have a name, my love? Does every wound, every scab dried in blood,
Every ache, every pang of suffering have a name?
Does every glance, or every smile—in distinct moments and joys—
Does every kiss of yours have a name, for instance, my love?
For the moment is different, the feeling is different, the level is different...
They wouldn't understand even if you explained, anyway, but...
Never mind,
Or,
If you were to let it go,
Let it be enough that *we* know; my love... After all, isn't this life—this act of living—still and always so wonderfully, "çiçimamatoştik"-whimsically peculiar-...
10.17—whose name do these dreams bear?
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