The memory still smiles at me
From the other side of loneliness
From the space in between
The present and the past
Of a soul dressed in black
Of a soul that has no call
Over reality or you or
the man enclosed me
in his temple
and left
without keys
I wait for him
and ask him
to tell me
when the sun rises
so I can wake up
sometimes I,
the bolted Anne,
can\'t find the roots
to
A night bird
I was
walking around pianos and jazz
around wrinkles and eyes
around whispers and grimms
around headlights and taxies
but now I\'m tired
of so much blue
light
projected in the
I dreamed of you
like you couldn\'t be
and now
I have to pay
the price that hurts
the price of your
uncertain existence
the price of arrogance
of my trying to be
yourself
the price of
It\'s the same morning
tasting like hurting ashes
the scenery is different...
The same morning
peasants have on their lands,
or the grandmother
in my far away country
Every morning
is a
Covering the clay altars
of our temples
with old and new faces,
we secretly pretend
we don\'t miss a thing,
we don\'t hurt at all.
In some propitious seasons
we are happy...
In the morning,
II