Clelia IFRIM

About the nature of the soul


Somebody washes me with a rose foam

and I’m beginning to catch
a skin of solar sweet.
His breath remains in me
as a light and equal light
on credit.


The little dairy maid


The most beautiful tree of the wood said:
– No woodcutter will touch me.
His axe will tremble in his hand.
Just so it happened.
The tree lived a thousand years
happy and alone.
One day he said again:
– Nor will the lightning burn me.
It will go round me.
Just so it happed.
The tree lived for another thousand years
happy an alone.
One day he bragged to the earth full of ants.
– Nor will they eat from me.
I’ll not be a dust of rot.
Just so it happened.
The ants forgot about him for a thousand years.

One morning when blue moon
was hanging in the sky
appeared a thin being
like a sheeted fieldess
with two small and round light lamps
on her breast.
The tree said nothing.
He died a thousand years
every morning waiting
for the little dairy maid.


Bread with poppy seeds


Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon
I wave to  the angels to come to me.
In hospitals and prisons
the taste is the same –
the teaspoonful of bromide
till the evening portion.


Somebody shows me another truth

and waves his hand
for my and his absolution
and then, as if nothing had happened
I feel the taste
of bread with poppy seeds.



Under the sky worn out by the stars –
the ants pulling the strings of the world’s rains
or climbing to the cage of the water houses
were not part of our time
and so the proof is wiped away.

A new day is dawing.
The hands quickly find the land of the doves
and their rooms from now on
simple rainbows are going all –
the list of the kings was in our hand
like the land of the fowls.

Spring night


The title of a dream
that all day long
you’re looking for it
is the only ornament that you want.

I have begun a star – modest act
turn your face towards me.



Earthen pot full of sweet milk –
the moon – only its margins.
In the marrow
an empty beehive.



Lady rib

Night theme
catch me, if you can.

I like this wrapping of the mind
in a white jersey.

The roses are overflowing.
and the hands are pressing themselves
to the breast –
nothing to add.

English version by AUTHOR