~¤~

In the morning...in me
the silent house it speaks
it happens that I
wander about aimlessly
in these
wellknown
drawing-rooms...
where faces from lost centuries
with empty silent stares
tries to capture glimpses
of me...

Condemned to a glory in golden foil
decomposes does the pastellage
and scarlet it's poliment
from another time
from othertimes
in the labour pains at
the new era's
indecisions...

* * *

In the parlors cabinet
I hide the mysteries
and the relics there collect
things in black
magically
An altar for me
a memorial grove
I like to
journey deep
within...

A temperafinished
angel's broken
wrist...
the brassbutton from
a dancing
dervish...
the silverspider which from
tormented clockwork-worries
fell in silence
one spring...
The torn
azure blue
velvetbox
as a lovegift was given
that once healed
someone's
wound...

It will surely happen
that I once will
become one with
all things passed
if one in human
nakedness one day
suddenly
is standing there
before
the end...

Then I wish and
humbly and still
pray to be
passed
into my cabinet...
and perhaps hoping
for someone
in memory's
light of dawn...
to bestow me some time
and despite all the dark...
gratefully recollect
my beauty's
charm...

* * *


(Patrique 15/01/09)

LPWJ eng version 08/07/09

Av dessa dedikationer o texter är nog den här den mest personliga jag någonsin gjort,
liksom den kändes på svenska första gången med bilden på trappan och allt
och den "hittade hem" var den "än värre" nu på engelska, om jag aldrig gör någonting mer kan du se den här som din gåva...mellan tidslösa bröder

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