Cigarette smoke the gray clouds
	spreading in the lungs 
of space, the living stars,
	the far-off drops of joy, 
the hair of palm trees, 
     and on the planet’s 
surface, en route 
  from one country 
    to another, in the air, 
in the stratosphere
    of the sky the wind 
       of thought, it dances 
in the brushes of the courtyard, 
shakes the limp sheet 
         on the line,
as a man awakens 
     to life, some future 
you can’t quite 
     put your finger on,
  it hides in the darkness, 
        in the night,
 and he stared into the stars 
      of the black space,
the sleep changed 
      into serious words,
far away the dogs, 
    beyond sleep, wake,
wise sentences, the sentinel 
    of the unknown,
Ulysses’ old mongrel, 
   I will never return home, 
I am condemned on the road, 
     a jew, my eyes like stars 
  shining, I have murdered
	the albatross, I cannot 
    come back again, I am 
         flying, I am gliding
 and the time slows down, 
     the joy of the stars
penetrates the thick 
         mass of clouds,
     it starts to rain, the sound 
          of raindrops
 on wooden window 
      sill, the night nearly
worn through, the first 
of the house woken 
      up unperceived,
I am still sitting 
      on the wooden bench
in the backyard, 
     listening to a toilet 
    hushing, a shower 
       being turned on,
 the whole planet 
    on the threshold of day,
the wet sheet on the line, 
   an actor’s cape, 
        this play is over, 
    the encores called,
  the life starting.

Markus Jääskeläinen


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