FANTASY
From the gaping eaves of the museum
of old Japanese art in Venice
fresh droplets continue to spatter.
Last night it rained.
Rain has not resigned itself to transience.
It stubbornly wants to explain.
The anguish in the tongue goes on.
The sword is fixed to the walls
raw metal or drawn on silk.
Registered as a museum exhibit
number such-and-such
it's no longer a sword, but a swordsman.
Once it was separated from blood
which it penetrated like a womb
it tried in vain to get used to sight.
That is not enough for it, but
it doesn't give up:
today an eye, tomorrow a slaughter.
The sword creates fantasies.
Every time is his time.
Translated by Ilija Casule and Thomas Shapcott
