Face, or Faith
You want to paint the good weather
But what appears on the paper
Is a word
Egon Schiele painted your face
But you wear the mask
Of flesh and blood
Which warm you
Deny you, make you, and attach you
To the real world
It is night
Passers-by are losing their contours
The world is obscure
But you sit in silence as solid as a cell
Thoughts are the male prisoners
Loves are the female ones
Since every weighty being has inertia
Light is what good weather remains in you
And you are what future remains
at the present
Eclipse
In your tranquility I see the world as it is
In your joy I see the world as it should be
In your sorrow, if you have any,
I am eaten by an eclipse
Which deprives the living of their essence
