I went through two thousand years,
a litre of wasteland and more in my boots,
on my retina hoarfrost,
which brings everything close.
I went as if I were going through a market,
stalls, cafés, fish
and stallholders, throught their vastness.
I went with millennial steps
on a frozen stone,
slipping into a Walpurgis night
frozen by polar night and northern lights,
where mead was drink from chhildren's eye-sockets.
That they are all in this market's
cobbles, slumbering and waking,
one step there, another here,
a thousand inventions and ten thousand murders
one on top of the next.
Do you still speak of what was
-my friend, my mother, my teacher -
of what was and is here
in the petrified past.
I went over two thousand images,
over frozen stones and scales,
the bats clamouring at my heels.