HANNAH, THROUGH THE CALLIGRAPHY OF MAGIC
For some time now, Hannah, your syncope
Has been disturbing the harmony of the cardiogram less and less.
But now it’s blinking again, now I remember the way you
Shook your hips and passed your fingers through your hair. Wow!
The way you dressed, while I made every effort not to feel dizzy.
The way the splinters of frost imprinted themselves on the stained glass
windows of late autumn
In that clear monogram: Hannah…in secret calligraphic letters…
While I was terrified that life would pass by without our meeting.
But there is no death, Hannah…
There is only a holographic projection of stationary matter.
There are regenerative pockets of the universe.
And there is just regret that the waiting could last for ages.
Because, Hannah, the hangars of darkness have never been respectable promenades
For your dainty, crystal-studded shoes.
I shall light a torch, Hannah, in the united kingdom
Of your dream and mine, with the refracted sun in your eyes.
And, in confidence, when all these games are over,
I shall start a revolution and seize your scepter of insubordination.
This is how I shall depose you, disarming you with a kiss on the neck,
So that the permanent discord will arise in your aristocratic heart.