I'm not here.

What a shame, tomorrow the day will break

and I'm not here anymore.

Shame, I won't be here

when someone tomorrow

will open the window,

when someone tomorrow will write a name on

the window's mist,

when someone tomorrow will water the flower pots

and with eyes full of stare

will gaze at the doubts of the fallen sparrows.

 

I'm not here.

What a shame, I won't be here

when someone tomorrow

drenched in a blue dream

will slowly stagger towards the mirror,

run the tab of the basing,

and tell the lonely man in the mirror-

a man who has turned into a cloud of dust,

who has turned into a grain of sand

turned into a drop of dew-

O monkey!

What a strange dream I had about you.

I swear, last night you were more than a hundred times

in my dream.

 

I'm not here

What a shame, I won't be here

when, in the light snowfall of one morning

somebody

will unreasonably start worrying,

his heart will suddenly think many things,

he imagines a thousand things

he will wish that someone,

someone who does not walk the roads anymore,

someone who does not walk out of the doors,

someone who does not stare out of the windows,

will walk past him

and tell him:

Long time no see, my friend!

 

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when someone tomorrow

in a fast train

will pass by a small cloud

which is thoughtful before a distressed station,

and his heart will suddenly have an omen,

he will suddenly call the cloud,

raise his hand,

until the furthest point in the world

he will turn to look at it,

and he will say under his breath:

Might it be him?

Might it be the person

who does not exist,

someone who no longer

stops

at any station in the world?

 

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when in a drizzly hour of one morning

in a library -

a library which wears a tie

and a head dress,

perfumed with the sweat of books-

a sad poem, sitting within

the attic of its own loneliness-

a poem which is still staring

and speaks as clearly as a mirror-

will be picked up by someone.

Someone, the kindest person in the world

will go under the poem's armpit

and help it off the shelf

and together they will go out,

together in a teahouse near the library

they will sit under the sun,

they will laugh together under the rain,

they will put their hands into their pockets

and start whistling under the snow,

they will look together and underline life,

they will underline

all the things

which are important

which are simple

and new.

They will underline all the things

that have been barricaded,

that have disappeared

and have been sidelined.

They will underline a poem

which has not grown,

an infant wrapped in a blanket

printed with butterflies.

They will underline an orange grocer,

a kite which is tied to

the string of childhood.

They will underline the morning's sweet tea,

a thread of grass,

a new sparrow

hoping to fly through the rain for the first time,

they will underline a crumpled tin

singing in a stream's summer noon.

 

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when a door opens wide

and no one walks out from it,

when a window opens

and no autumn butterfly

will walk its evening,

when waiting kills a ladder

and no one will climb it

carrying a bunch of grapes

to the summer roof in the evening,

when a road pines away from loneliness

and no one will give it a hug,

when a tree ruins

and no one will take one of its colours,

when a garden grows old

and no one will wear one of its flowers on their collar.

 

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when you will come to the courtyard one evening

and it won't be me

whose finger is on the bell,

waiting behind the door

with a heart full of doubt like young grapes.

 

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when in a winter hour of one afternoon

you will walk out all worried

and it won't be me

who childishly stares at the innocence of the wind

and the extension of the rain.

I'm not here.

Shame, I won't be here

when one stormy hour of an afternoon

you will walk the city searching for me.

You will search for me in the armpit of a wet bat,

you will knock on the door

of an ant friend of mine,

you will get worried and ask:

have you not seen him today?

 

You will stop the Pick-up of a drunk squirrel,

you will enter the shop

of a florist owl,

you will start cooing

with a pessimistic pigeon,

you will stop by a garden relative

and search the closed fist of a flower for me.

You will search

under a strand of hay before the house of a stork,

in the beak of a sparrow-chick,

under the nails of a hedgehog.

You will search

the depth of a drop of water for me,

under the feet of a ladybird,

under a grain of clay,

in the warm palm of a wheat stalk,

in the sourness of a hawthorn fruit,

under the stem of a hurt basil,

under the tongue of a dumb zikzike,

in the bottom of the damp pocket of a story,

the iris of a bead,

the sleeve of a stem of rhubarb,

on the roof of a young smell,

inside a bundle full of dreams,

under the thin skin of a snowflake,

in the heartbeat of a grain of pomegranate,

in everything

you will search for me in everything.

What a shame in that unfortunate hour

of the afternoon

you will be looking for me

but I won't be here

what a shame

in the snowfall hour of that afternoon

I'm

not

here

anymore.