Miroslav Holub
The ímpetus of poetry lies always in the incommunicable
Traces which assail daily and almost pass
imperceptibly,
The innumerable and inevitable correspondences we
Cannot but make collectively and with all the rigour
Of the common house spider building her web;
Tracing the intimacy of Brown glass with Red waxen
Seals and the fortune that is in all fermentation.
Not forgetting baking in the oven the indiscriminate
bread,
Lighlty brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with sea
salt,
Toasting a biscuit Brown only to be garnished with
Green beans and onion gently fried and accompanied
With cured ham from Italy. Tasting the poem...
With Beethoven audible and the dog sleeping visible.
Have you forgotten anything?
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