***(The man who is coming)
A dissonant clamor of colorful voices
equal pebbles, days equal
like some rust crumble out of the eyes.
It is late to change myself and
I am the same again – with the essence
of an oak and a rose.
Dissolved in the heavens and with immovable shape of a heart.
A movement of light, before the Angel comes by your house.
On the island a hand with a cresset lit weighs.
/o, Nietzsche – a symbol of free will,
your road has cut off/,
and how much does the Hawaii weigh and the frames of the madwoman
a hand – an endless feast of deep tints
(why hasn’t Van Gogh been born yet?)
On that island I’d like the feast to be...
The man who is coming is whistling