Father Pavlovitch Karamazov

No head upon the Father of Lies,

Who, taking offense, plays the part of the martyred,

Sadly shedding dignity before his sons.

With vagrancy behind grotesque eyes

He teaches them how to pull a trigger,

End a lie, start a fire.

Nothing withheld from him but his own head,

Our Father is, by self-arrangement,

Passionately disturbed.

A kiss, then, is so unharmonious as to seal his fate,

Placed upon each boy’s neck,

Causing brothers to turn upon their own flesh,

Like ascetic bliss.

Wolf Calls

The night air stirs.

Unexposed, I meet my universe.

The trees greet me in the moonlight.

They peer and whisper with the wind.

In its madness, the wind paints everything.

In the darkness of my imagination,

What courses, what causes moments

To gleam and never die,

There's a shaded sky,

The shifting of leaves,

And a mare on the rise.

I blush and know I exist,

Aging with these colors of green and gray.

I am of discussion, alive

In the phantom romance of the woods,

But the wolf calls for me.

In this siren, death approaches and I freeze.

This world of green, without path or marking,

Is drawn by instinct, pointing everywhere.

The wolf's eyes, ever-wide

Without sun or star to guide,

Yet I am found.