Air

Your body is the duct in which
wheat, naptha, and food flows,
the bridge over which the horseman races.
Your hands are the window,
your words are the window,
your body is the window.
Whatever you touch or caress in your mind
burns in a terrible flame and smells.
In every breath,
in every gesture you guide me.
And you bend,
and I bend,
and I get up,
and I get up and go.
You tell me not to use inflated, hungry language,
dry weapon of the air.
You tell me to be careful.
You tell me to be wealthy and I am wealthy.
Blue and powerful are my fortresses,
I slip through the souls of kings,
I travel from Babylon to Nineveh,
from Nineveh to Babylon.
You appointed me:
I am handsome and haughty,
because I am strong and wet.
Your body is a duct in which
wheat, naptha, and food flows,
a bridge over which the horseman races.
Your hands are the window,
your words are the window,
your body is the window.
Whatever you touch or caress in your mind
burns in a terrible flame and smells.

From The Four Questions of Melancholy

Categories: Poems

Tags: poem of the week, poetry, The Four Questions of Melancholy, Tomaz Salamun Air