My room is the night.
I push my thought through America
My heart is broken by nostalgia,
wires run through my head -
chaotic electricity of separation.
Now I am here, sentenced to write.
I drink my own blood in a deciliter of wine,
left to the demons of the night,
Jesus' cross and prayer.
I push my thoughts through America,
the continent hits me with materialism,
I stand naked with petty cash in my hand and
look for understanding in the underground of New York.
It is true, sometimes I'm afraid
of the wantonness of ravenous snobs,
with suspicious glances, Satan attacks
wishing my spirit, my body and blue blood.
In the eye the looming tears,
in the soul a million questions,
my heart bothers me, it turns to the being
- the essence of anthropology,
the Mediterranean fetus of destiny.
I’m cast in the mold of Europe.
I push my thoughts through America,
I look for gold in abandoned mines
tunnels excavated long time ago,
in worn rivers, forgotten countries.
I find nothing but
some measly gold coins -
valuable enough to get to the coast
and go on with the Gulf Stream
to my cradle.
I push my thoughts through America,
awoken at the beginning of a beautiful dream
in whose labyrinths
I created the art of my region,
of Roman conquests, Venetian oars
and Greek myths.
Wine - blood is already being drunk;
carrying the fury through the veins to my heart
which beats like mad the rhythm of all my
comings and goings.
I push my thoughts through America,
persistently I want to be a resident of this big city
that eats with its urban mouth
everybody who hides in it.
Thank you, o land of Indians
in whose astral pipe
I took a deep breath of the power of self-confidence,
the force that opened to me the door to knowledge
where I found the inner America
and all these countries which have sought themselves in me.
rikpoems.com