SINGER MORSE-SIGN

                       
I locked all the doors, wooden boxes, I even nailed up the shutters if there were any left! The wandering fugitives of my four quarters still knock at my window with the weight of the day! - Here is the smallest room, made of four rows of concrete blocks, like a Lego cube, and we'll be glad if it doesn't collapse soon! 

The nothingness of nothing, the all-filling continent Stretches along the hangman's walls! The volcanoes' craters are nailed here by the fiery lover Summer: a fire-nest in an age of love's flames. With condolence I pay homage, bowing my head in humility, To the day-labourers of the raging skies, Whose momentary bliss, too, is dependent on the laws of unknown nature, Grazing among the bastions of the bubbling needle-bearers, Grasshoppers of consolation

make music. All seems to cease when sun-spots are cherished in the fertile calla lily! In the summer stupor, only masons and industrial helpers still work in a nimble, tendon-breaking exhaustion, in a blistering stupor. I fill up chasms in the mornings under the craters of my eyes! My skull: pearl and cascade, thrust into the free air of tickling heaters, I may be free! Not yet!

We have had enough of the heat of thunderstorms, and enough of the heat of thunderstorms that have upset hangovers, and now we must trust in a shower of tears refreshing with chapped, flabby throats, as in a face-wipe in the secret Morse code of heavenly messages!