36

we multiply a few billion scars into radiance.

the mournings of the day dissolve, the chrysanthemums of

risk stitch us together like morse code.

it's too beautiful to be the objective truth, but it is so.

“would” in all its forms -

erogenous fictions and dystopian

isotopes of “what would it be if”.

the volleys of the storm, picture of an iris,

the pain of utmost proximity -

we are an equation of all these.

come on, you say, let us go, and this “us” transforms

nihilism into possibilities. and

the news broadcast which continues with

negligent gods and providence

and the feeling that everything is a function of.

we look around like weathercocks,

like acrobats we jump any obstuction.

the aim we pursue is the only lighthouse. we listen to

fairy godmothers, Radiohead, frogs,

emulsions of potential reality, whatever.

“why”, “how”, "if” are expelled from the dictionary.

the irony of fate is there is neither irony nor fate.

the jasper of our touch is an atom bomb.

Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips