A paradise-paradox painted in orange

Christmas mornings in tears
with clenched fists like eyes to the brim on,
those cast up against the ceiling;
into some bed clothes you’re huddlin’ uncertainties,
white flowers bleeding, nibblin’ at some pains,
the demons are whisperin’ those carols of the Hell

the silence’s scrapin’ the skin,
the cold’s smashin’ nuclei,
I’m hungry with the wings,
those that don’t belong to me,
a spirit whose incarnation
is to be governed by others

that uniformity,
that order with no escape,
what an oddity, if you’ll consider that all my live
I’ve been painting only that serene sky...

 translated by Miqhael-M. Khesapeake