Morning with blindness

I wake up this morning blind And I can’t see where are the things that I know,

Where are my books, where is the piano,

Where is the bathroom and where to find my future,

Everything is foggy,

As if the sun has risen too soon,

After a cold, rainy night,

Those midgets have won after all,

They who never do anything else

But to boil the leaves

And to put on embers the stalks pith,

The squinting midget was whirling in cauldron,

And the blue midget was waving the grayling leaves,

I see the process, but I don’t see the things,

As if they have left me

For a better things’ world,

Leaving me to redraw the world

Following what I see with my dead eyes,

Dew drops clarified with white petals

Of apple, engrafted apricot and cherry flowers,

Looking pink here and there…

I wave my hands, inventing benchmarks,

But I know that no one sees

What I see.