I ran to the west, to the west, to the west.
As one rock poet said, the west is the best.
The west is the best. Away from cities,
where old west dies, new west is
being born all the time. Where dust
is plentiful as your lies, where rolling
thunders light my heart as your words once did.

I ran to the west to steal the horse’s will,
and white poor folk’s impetus of strength.
Sometimes I think that if I had the power
of the sun in the palm of my hand,
I would burn every inch of
your corrupted veins.

I ran to the west to run away from us.
I searched for a small bar to see
the rising moon fed with lifeless light
the west emptiness. In the vast
plains of the west, where death speaks
loud as lonely people, I desired
someone who is neither you nor me.

I ran to the west to get lost, to jail myself.
I wore a ball and a chain to have one real
chance of escaping. And life is about escaping.
I don’t know who I am: the one that goes
with dreams fueling my head or the one
that returns with air escaping through my hands.

I ran to the west from a cheap hotel to another,
where Indian’s skulls decorate the walls,
and black blood washes the floor. In the meantime,
I slept with twenty and maybe more toothless ghosts.
I once refused a duel and kissed the bearded man’s
dirty pistol. And the taste of the bullet reminded me
of your venom tongue. I spat in a window,
cried like a baby without a mother,
giving birth to an oasis of bitterness.  

I ran to the west and found a Russian writer from
the nineteen-century lost in Siberia’s snow hell.
And, I can’t remember that well, but he yelled
as bells, something like – his land is his land.
Then I shot him down with my legally bought
double revolvers as some extinct type of bear.
With his tears bones, I wrote in the ground:
“Welcome to the sound of the west”.
What can I tell? The west is infinity
ready-made in Earth, my damned little girl.
The west rises as the radiant tyranny of freedom.
The west won’t ever know any borders, any ends.

I ran to the west to ask. Maybe I am the one
who is chasing or the one who will be caught
someday. Perhaps I am both, a lion and
a rat. Or nothing at all. Or a grain of
sand deep in the desert madness.
I don’t even know if this is really a thing in the west.
The west – where souls are blended, where angels
and devils share the same men, women, and wine,
where Jesus and Judas walk side by side,
where truth runs down the train’s rusty lines.