*
Clouds clouds clouds and clouds.
Rain fog hail and snow.
A wine that gets cloudy is the sky.
The mountains are coming apart down below
when from one of them a finger slips
with a three-pointed eye on its tip
(just look how it looks me in the eye!)
The sea is there too, but has no reddish tones
and it’s not water either, it’s all bones
(they seem to have just left their gravestones!)
A throng of heads of dead men and of saints
overtake me and stand before my feet
big shots and monsignors with broken teeth.
The clouds are menacing, bedeviled,
an angel slugs it out with the devil
wings pitchforks swords thunder and lightning
(I don’t remember if I’m dead or living!)