Romantic

      Romantic


There is a barren point in the middle
that philosophers call the transcendental subject.
The wind blows over dry and scarce snow,
the cold itches the nostrils, tenses the spine.
The gray night of having escaped into empty land
delineated by a black body of forest.
There is an unbounded space in the middle
that supports against shivering,
that establishes connection
with a red cliff, blazed by the high sun.
There is the middle in front of the stone wall,
poised to climb. In the midst of soaking sweat,
what is behind? With the inner gaze flattening
out that space,
two blankets lay as one on the fresh grass,
two recognitions rest on each other.