Rain pierces the land
and expands glories;
all sounds have become silent;
the aqueducts have been filled to the brim
with a strong current;
unanticipated memories feel anxious.
The mirror is open, but the strong current
does not reflex anything.
The distant glory makes the sight obscure.
I will die tonight.
Everyday the earth, everyday the classic rain,
expressions obedient to intimations of water,
creating constant surprise-
all these are rendered to the plane
of the silence of earth
by the obscure shadow lines of mirror.
A period of afternoon waits erect
without a step
and feels the presence of a sunless day.
The rain, the classic rain turning into
a sleeping memory-pang
will get up floating
while making the sound of life extinct,
in poetry, filtrating all realities,
it will devour all mistakes and oblivions
erasing all maps in the roads outside
making the dwelling places tired.
This classic rain, this rain.
I will die tonight.
I assemble all the mirrors of eternity,
and the stream of glorious sun set.
The rain of languages and that of reflected swords
get stuck stationed.
They dominate the waiting moment with tempo
in the provinces of curiosity and mystery.
I cannot but recollect rains in the days of loneliness.
I’ll no more be able to know about my own death
in the depth of my dreams;
I’ll no more be able to know about the wall-writing of absence.
Your lost coast and the boundlessness of life
haunt me today, this rainy day.
Colors and opulence, like the enigma
of a dead person, get concealed here.
Crossing insurmountable caves and estuaries,
and the entire spotless beauty,
I’ve reached the realm of your dreams.
Rain pours down tirelessly on the
borderland between day and night,
in the dusk of desire and ending,
or at dawn the vessels of clouds
anchored off the islands
endorse the rainbow in the lofty ideas.
Life is free from all brackets.
The boundlessness of the sky creates
the glorious afternoon on the silent presence of matters;
dates, years and nameless epitaph have been written-
now they, coming through the desolate rainy paths,
perhaps, make their own constellations blind
in the depth of slumber.