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.

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