When this poetry was published, I wrote:
"Study" is my initiation into the knowledge of pain and decay. Time becomes a tyrannical concept that digs deep into my soul. It becomes new anxiety that I will call existential in later times.
Even if your wheat was swept away from the storm
At their time of maturity
And all that is left on your breast is a wasteland
Do not weep for the lost harvest
There will always be on the palms of the storm
Those sprouted wheat
Your own
There will always be the wheat
That you have never harvested.
***
When I enter my old house
The rooms fill with birds
And in the pots it's still fresh
The memory blooming with visions
Time locked in the drawers
Fragrant with oblivion
Broken candlewick
It stacks shadows on the scratched walls
It stacks silence on silence
Where I left your tender face
There is a wound from oblivion
Birds holding on their beaks
a piece of death
It's what is left from my old house
Η ποίηση αυτή εκδόθηκε το 1961