Cry

Black complement of the world
my house
was never the mother's breast you claim.

It was dead the mother's breast
before
discharge into death.

Beneath the flickering stars
beneath the weight of clouds
discharge.

Flowers go on in the lamp's twisted shadow
a fragment of my rOle appears:
housewife?
no, woman in love?
no, highbrow?

And something issues from me something like a song
no, a prayer
no, an oration for a life's serenity_