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next by irras han


n e x t

b y    I r r a s   H a n

The years
before we met
carries you
like a stretch of
silvery wave
constantly trying to break
and mend itself
into a piece of fluid
amoebic land.
Now my eyes fumble
for that door
to the other side
where your favorite
language is spoken
under an alien sky;
your migratory path
on this immense black wall
sealed by the night.
Am I too late?

Will the words
turn into bursts of light,
all my feelings caught
in the headlights,
line by line?
And will you dive
deeper into the contrast,
my de Chirico shadow
framing your window?

Tell me, tell me that you see:

a future
penciled in, time
in both hands.



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