olive picking

Three on the floor
legs between buckets and century old trees
olives pitted and non pitted
let down to earth with nimble hands

has this autumn started yet?

Has it started, a season like autumn
hot like summer, heavy on the heart
why then, does all this death look like a joke?

it has then started, the cycle of regeneration
fitting into us, a skeleton into the trees
like finger for wooden tables

does it have to make sense?
this destiny, this end
this vacuum?

hunger

I've seen the orchard
filling with apples yet denied myself
picking the blood you've planted for the season.

things I call autumn

once more left
to this rush
the fake leaves I make and call autumn

Candle making on an autumn night

Melt the wax without hurting those slim fingers
ones the sorceress told you belonged to an artist
in a cold city that never belonged to you
where you searched for reason to keep walking without looking back
assure that the perfume is added gradually to avoid burning
your face, the smell is always potent to fill you
with nostalgia to the one who let you stand
and knew how to bend you, left and right
to his will, to his touch-
add a wick, there should be a source of light
something to keep the fire going, shouldn't there be?
desire, despair and other dead things
you burn to light the leftover darkness in the corner of your room
this autumn takes you by storm
by way of the sun disappearing behind the mountains
the natural turn of the leaves, the wind and the day.

Halloween, in this country

In other countries, people wait for the departed
to walk earth again,
in my country, the departed walk earth every single day

this halloween

Heart of a mouse
you have the skin of a lion
hard to say how much our costumes fool us

Meditation

I look into the olives
that have not yet fallen
even after the leaves of autumn surround the grounds
how strong can you latch on
when the world lets go