Absinthe and Visions

sometimes, I replace my heart with a piece of coal.

and all the poisoned tears, oh, I kept them inside, so now I can feel them flooding my chest.

After all, I'm just waiting to drown in there.

I wrote this on 23.3.2016, in a diary full of poems.

By reading that mess, I can relive those days again.

Picture is Der Mönch am Meer (1808-1810) by Caspar David Friedrich, a work I immediately thought of while translating this little poem.

We're very good at running away even though there's no escape our demons are tattooed on our eyelids so we can see them even in an eternal sleep

I realize, almost touching the destination, that I intend to change course. I am always aware of my schemes: I love to desire, not to possess.

Agony III.

The words I wish I could say

usually die in my throat. And

their corpses suffocate me:

they keep piling up,

all the way to my chest,

keeping this heart warm, yet so lonely.

Storm waves:

they radiate from this mind

that wanders, instinctively,

and reaches untamed shores.

A tearing echo:

it expands all over my vessel

and it begins to lose its way,

answering the call.

There they are: the furious sea and the sweet melodies,

comrades again, after a thousand years!,

dragging me to the burial of my heart,

ripped apart by sorrows.

My words (translated).

Perhaps I'm a libertine, still young in body, but old in soul? Perhaps I'm a work of art, that everyone sees, but no one looks at? Perhaps I'm an eagle whose wings have been clipped? Perhaps I'm nothing, no one really loves me? Perhaps I'm a blade of grass, lucky not to have been crushed? Perhaps everyone thinks they know what I am, but alas, I still search.

Translated from one of my old diaries, written on 3.1.2015, no title. Young me was just like that.

This world is filthy.

Maybe I'm holding myself back from being who I am in order to be who I should be.

we are cursed poets

and we claim it,

defying the whole crowd:

we run together on the side of this long road,

loving our exile,

while the divine Helios keeps heating our flaming souls.

you're surrounded by beauty: sometimes it lies in quiet spaces;

away from the crowds and the horrors of our time

or

Gone, lost, decayed. Is there anything more sublime than the memory of all we've lost?

When I left home, the maid asked me where I was off to.

I said "Wherever. Whatever. Have a nice day."

Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia, Barcelona.