All the beautiful women thought
Every love poem I wrote
I wrote for them.
But I always felt bad
Knowing I wrote them
Just for something to do.

translated by George Messo

I saw my mother dead in a dream.
I woke up crying.
It reminded me of one holiday morning
Staring at the balloon I’d lost to the sky,
Crying.

translated by George Messo

There’s something like whiskey in the air
Makes you feel down, down . . .
If you burn with longing, missing her
When your girl is somewhere else
And you’re here
It makes you feel rough, rough . . .

There’s something like whiskey in the air
It makes a man drunk, drunk.

translated by George Messo

I gather old things,
Gather and make them into stars.
If music is the manna of love,
I just love music.

I write poems.
I write poems and gather old things,
Swapping old things for music.

I wish I were a fish in a bottle of gin.

translated by George Messo

There are days, I gather myself and leave,
In the smell of nets freshly hauled from the sea
Taking flight on the path of gulls
Drifting from one island to another.

There are unimaginable worlds,
Flowers open, erupt in noise,
Smoke bursts noisily from the earth.

But the seagulls, the seagulls,
Each feather bristling with haste!

There are days, blue all over me.
There are days, sunlight all over me.
There are days, delirious days . . .

translated by George Messo

I’m sick and tired of dragging it around,
For years, on the tips of my toes.
Let’s live a little in this world,
My shadow alone,
Me by myself.

translated by George Messo

Which of you can make lanterns
From pumpkins like me;
Or carve an old boat on them
With a pearl-handled knife;
Write poems
Or letters;
Sleep
Or get up;
Which of you can please
His girl
The way I do!

This beard didn’t grey for nothing!

translated by George Messo