when I was eighteen

he knew how to be happy, how to live however, he didn’t know quite well how to leave how to build the waxen wall between us cool beads, icy beads, preceded the mourning strung on a whip, tangled up among my fingers since clenching of hands preceded the mourning alike a garland extremely stretched between two realms the avulsion at all hazards of one breath and of another one, preceded the mourning I couldn’t accept to look for his shirt for the last time nor to face the reality’s tawdry eye to remain without support only for three days I still could uphold my forehead on his frosted hands a real house is a house full of friends he was using to say and all of the sudden our house hard-tried by an unnatural happening became unbearably real it was an unexpected end, a painful beginning of another kind of living I never understood what all those people were doing there now, when daddy’s son became a woman I know that great part of the silences made of never spoken words buried and changed into clay long time ago when all the others were celebrating the Good Annunciation day