The Red Rose

At the early white in my hair did you stare? or at the deep creases of my eyelids? at my dry lips? or did you stare - in my clouded gaze - at the broken pens and my looted notebooks of poems in the house: in my "homeland"? Did you stare at my words at the falling of leaves leaves heaped up and burned in the fire in the square? Have you gazed at the welt of the whip on my chest? under the overcoat, on my shoulder? Perhaps you stared - in my pupil - at the sobbing of my nights and at the stinging tongues; at the line of the calendar - a cursed calendar - that has stood still in the gloom of the age of darkness in the sentence of the lashes of the whip? But I am still gazing: at the embrace of your clear tears with my cheek; at your kiss upon my heart, and at the most beautiful red rose of existence that has opened between your lips above the now: we are passing through the darkness! ...