At the Midpoint of Nowhere in Particular

just writing...

it is no longer necessary
to say "my life is..."

after almost fifty years I see
that days are fading gracefully
and are without limit
because they don't oppose the night

night is taking on an interest
beyond the aura of the lamp

in the last few days
the roses have been standing
anxiously at the window --
at times I discern a scratching
on the windowpane
and whenever I touch them
the talk turns to blood

the roses are never sentimental
they are quick tempered and lascivious --
the vista of love runs
along the road of pleasure
(the impenetrable forest of denial
borders its other side)

the flowers bloom and
disintegrate among my thoughts

I am where I am going
and this landscape continuously offers me
fresh horizons --
what is after will not be different
I am anonymous now
I will be anonymous then