SINGER MORSE-SIGN

                       

I locked all the doors,

 wooden boxes,

 I even nailed up the shutters 

if there were any left!

 The wandering fugitives

 of my four quarters still knock at

 my window with the weight of the day!

 - Here is the smallest room,

 made of four rows of concrete blocks,

 like a Lego cube,

 and we'll be glad if

 it doesn't collapse soon! 

The nothingness of nothing,

 the all-filling continent

 Stretches along the hangman's walls!

 The volcanoes' craters

 are nailed here by the fiery lover Summer:

 a fire-nest in an age of love's flames.

 With condolence I pay homage,

 bowing my head in humility,

 To the day-labourers of the raging skies,

 Whose momentary bliss, too,

 is dependent on the laws of unknown nature,

 Grazing among the bastions

 of the bubbling needle-bearers,

 Grasshoppers of consolation make music.

 All seems to cease when

 sun-spots are cherished in

 the fertile calla lily!

 In the summer stupor,

 only masons and industrial helpers

 still work in a nimble,

 tendon-breaking exhaustion,

 in a blistering stupor.

 I fill up chasms in the mornings

 under the craters of my eyes!

 My skull: pearl and cascade,

 thrust into the free air of tickling heaters,

 I may be free! Not yet!

We have had enough 

of the heat of thunderstorms,

 and enough of the heat of thunderstorms 

that have upset hangovers,

 and now we must trust in a shower

 of tears refreshing with chapped, 

flabby throats, as in a face-wipe

 in the secret Morse code

 of heavenly messages!