(lyrics from The Clavichords of Silence, Nikos Engonopoulos)
the sperms
of werewolves
exhaust the
horizon’s
helms
throw
flaming flutes
into the
bloodied dresses
hanging from
the thick branches
of trees
beg for
the justice
and pity
of children
—however—
place red flowers
in her hair
stand fully
naked
in purple
gardens
get lost
inside
dark caves
whose depth
conceals
sewing machines
and yellow
fish
speaking
like flowers
and maybe
after all
I am
this werewolf
of lightning
the one they call
—when darkness comes—
the “parenthesis man”
in the bellows
of intrigue
in the
shrouds
of the night
journey
when
a bird
like a sulphurated wick
dies
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