It’s Sunday where I am not -
where roasted chestnuts are sold on the street,
trams are orange and old,
and someone else is learning to play the piano.
The light solemnly says goodbye.
Afternoons like this make me want to write poems about the smell of chimney smoke,
about the unread books at home
and about first loves.
Of course, on such afternoons
I don't carry a notebook with me.
I have a friend who is a communist
and a friend who defines himself as one
my neighbour is a fascist
and what a fascist!
it's impossible to find a radish
the salad is here
the onion is here
but no radish!
I was a nazi
later on a socialist
now I'm a Human
i know they’ve all
expected a downfall
but instead they’ve found success
and although they didn’t know what to do with it
i didn’t help them
when you exceed all their expectations
you end up all alone
don’t accuse me i don’t love you
every morning i wake up
with a feverish desire
to bite your toenails
when i wait for you i turn on a blinding light
and then you arrive
and turn it off
(so that i can see you)
She has conspired with a woman
dressed in green, who was missing a leg.
She has resisted gridlines.
She has stolen time from the bellies of spinsters.
She has slept sitting,
set tails on fire;
with mountain folk
she has eaten dark food.
She has opened the shutters at night,
taken out a ladder,
switched on the lights,
and washed the windows wearing only a bra.
and then you knock down the straw hut, alone / alone / alone in a hostile (in a sickly) universe, blinded by the Flash and the Bang, and then the iron hand will rise and it will try to crush you -- yes -- like a gnat -- (like a tiny gnat) -- yes -- corrupting your (very) / (mystical) essence, like a bombed-out sea of emotions...
one day I will climb to the top of the hill
one day I will find the bridge of moondust
one day I will climb to the top of the hill
sails like a boat
on my dark blue
Just a few centimeters away
from the edge of the world.
We are not angels;
it was known...
Our wings won’t grow
-was there any other suspicion?
Have we lately become
so superstitious as
with the Demon?
Since fall is flying,
the change of times
to clear our vision.
I often confess to the district tax collector
to the court representatives
who look in vain for my name in their lists
To the gilded vestments of the bishops I confess
To the open windows recently barred
To the neighborhood butcher
To the policeman patrolling alone at nights
To the bailiff with scores of summonses
that he releases to the wind like kites
To the court martial I confess and their harsh punishment
Tôt ou tard s'en aller
Plus rien à trimballer
Partir après demain
Prendre un des deux chemins
Lumineux ou obscur
Retenir les piqûres
S'adresser au soleil
Celui-là qui s'éveille
Ah, toi qui es si froid
J'accuse ton cœur droit
De m'avoir laissée seule
Pour me casser la gueule.
Tôt ou tard s'en aller
Plus rien à trimballer
Plus rien à endosser
Plus de cœur cabossé
Marcher le long des rails
Caresser la ferraille
Gribouiller sur les murs
When we are young,
When we are girls,
We climb trees, play hide and seek,
We don’t have balls, but we have dolls
It’s not a problem if we’re girls or boys
As long as we share the toys.
When we grow up
We get the balls, lose the dolls,
Release the braids and ponytails
and wait for a suitable wind.
And then we get a bit older.
We become a mother or a woman,
or if we are lucky, both.
When we grow old,
we look more like a father.
Our breasts flatten and rest,
we get a quite, unwanted moustache,
The elegance of stone on a rock
The liturgy of eternity.
Stone guest, not a cross, but rook.
The road was trembling, the rains washed away the ridges
As a rainbow on hands the tears was dropping.
I was living while losing faith.
The sun, a yellow spot, was floating,
Among the clouds, among the dots and the dashes of a sheet,
Apostrophes, the softness of my tongue,
Justly laughs at Iraq.
Justly laughs at lads struggling with a drunken policeman:
His forged badges in his coat and his hands are fettered to a coined Dirhems of gasp and sever cold.
What shining badges on his miserable chest!
What a feathery hat; punctured while it avoids the thunderbolt with an amputated head!
What badges of bravery hanging over like the keys of a banker,
you’re a sick hahahaah
she’s definitely sick look at her
a sick little bitch
she needs treatment
hahahaha she wants to get a spider
she sits at home thinking we’ll go away
hahahahah she’s blasting that music
hahahahaha a sick little bitch
the whole street knows she’s sick
we’ve known her since childhood she’s stupid
look the sicko is coming
look she’s coming
a couple of sun rays to what is already clear
how fares your palestine? when will it let you go?
how fares your heart amidst the strange and the alien?
i’m muddling up words. languages. in the evenings
i read that Lord’s love’s parceled out by abraham’s children
out rolls the spring on a camel laden with gifts
green turns the cover and contents of your koran –
sort of a book devised by
Là où sont engendrées les guerres, là où poussent les herbes du désespoir
Puis le ciel a déchiré ses vêtements, un à un
Ses joues griffées par les ongles de la peur.
Avant de rencontrer les foulards de tes poèmes
Déployés sur les bateaux d’Odessa et sur les navires tristes,
Je disais :
« Seuls les grands poètes écrivent de la poésie sincère »
Poems come in different kinds.
They may be tall – or not really. Women – or not really.
Poems grow too but they do not need watered, they are not trees and you are not water.
For a poem to grow he or she needs to be rocked.
You may encounter a poem missing a leg or an arm, but there’s no need to be sad – they can regrow them like lizards who lose their tails and find them again.
Yet distances are bridges
that cannot separate us,
for we gathered the light
in the well of our eyes,
we visited night’s broken branches.
I want you to know
that you are never alone
and that in every empty inch
there is a crowd moving
and each smile comes
-please remember it-
from the secret fountain of goodness.
Know that we’ll have to ask
Moisten your breath with her crossed questions
until the moon has fallen down.
And once the moon has fallen down,
close your eyes.
Find a space beside her
This desire, as this life,
does not bear all this clarity.
She, with her octopod vagina,
swallowed swarms of my day
to teach me
how life could be my concern,
like poetry and
Let me imagine you will grow back
into tiny feet and perky giggle, tasting
sand from the back of your hand while
I watch asphalt burst with heat, the husk
of August cracking with the burden of
the cerulean blue, juicy half peaches
on the napkin next to me, trying to hold
on to the faint glow of the late afternoon
before you are one step closer to radiant
cheekbones, velvet lipstick, a knot of
I owe everything to you.
Clay the unsafe
scaffolding of divine guilt,
the shadow of those who shaped
with a sense
Before I could say “save me” from you
I was born. Inside your soft belly
throbbed the strange substance
creating, O God of excess,
the fear of the future
existence that I owed.
longing for the startled
Lost in the clouds, I seek refuge in the soil;
Who waters it with my salty spittle
And with the sweat of the clouds?
Who guards the kisses amassed on its hillside.
and drags those destinies with his ropes?
Who converses with the thief,
and shakes the clouds with the voice of an uncertain god?
Who finds tranquility in the shape of your sunken breast?
Who settles in his land for a time
I know this place is
he rhymed like this
we could have laughed but the long black bending legs
kept taking me drugged and unawares
to the jungle of sensation
misword him standing at the station:
but he never tied the speed freak to the tracks
trying to crack this pulsing chest and let out the wings
I cannot breathe
with this internal
everything possible becomes graspable
light stained griffins
I ask them about a movie,
and they tell me their own history.
Save me here, under the bridge,
where the concrete is burdened by waves,
and to shine I look into the lamp’s eyes.
Leave me, leave me under the bridge,
if I shivered, I’d bathe in the light,
from the concrete, I’d learn the brine.
I was right before,
it’s terrible to admit, to recognize
the monster’s color in the rapture (and conversely);
not a big deal, really, scant for a poem,
The boys are back in the pub and make orders with their last pennies,
They've shrunk in numbers, there are only a few of them now
deprived of a guarantee for eternity-
to leave this life untimely with the aplomb
of the Great- an ineptly induced death:
and they are angry at their own never touched wine- they are alive,
the fraternity of the still living poets,
of the ones cursed to die from love,
with arteries calcified by meds,
Words were not
Signifier of loss
For T. S. Eliot,
Where the beginning is the end
—In my beginning is my end,
Traces of old fires,
The perpetual star of hope
In the long journey of the Magi
For a Birth like Death,
Omar Khayyam’s history of the Soul
Which you read as a young man
—In my end is my beginning.
Each step is bound to incompleteness
Without a word:
Like he just walked out of the video shop,
there stands the statue of archangel Michael
in one of history’s shaded courtyards.
In the city to take a break,
he’s renting out all the films.
Paying no heed to the plinth, he promises
cool, darkened rooms and, through the cracks of the blinds,
a lot of sex.
Well, all right.
His renaissance rendering contends beautifully
with porn fantasies,
The wave of red lifeless water,
the road followed at night,
the poor earth strewn with travellers,
the white swaying shrouds,
The only thing needed for a race
is the horse’s mane.
This is the truth,
now we are here
rotted away in a rut.
God must not see the letters of my script.
Mankind’s a mistake, he keeps saying.
And to correct his mistake
he gives sorrow,
Assise, clandestine de la vie
La vitre collée contre le corps…
Connaît… ô très bien… ô très fort
Les déchirements des départs
Le tremblement des mains a l’arrivée
Se souvient de l’ami Brel chantant
Vivant à jamais dans ses Marquises
« Et vous mes mains ne trembler pas
Ne vous tendez pas
Surtout ne me laisser pas…
Souvenez-vous comme je vous pleurais dessus »
Le grand-père a perdu un œil en Allemagne
quand il travaillait à la mine. Il n’a plus jamais
été lui-même depuis. La ceinture
lui contournait le ventre
et il mâchait du pain trempé dans du vin.
Il est mort dans une résidence au
nom de bateau. C’est curieux comme
les gens tracent leur propre cartographie.
- not just a shed, but a work of art – each joint
perfectly butted, all dowelled – not a single nail.
And lofty and strong and light!
You could stable a giraffe in there, with room to canter.
You could graze your beast on the roof
and it wouldn’t bow.
Father worked tirelessly –those dark years
in the shadow of the War dropped from his shoulders
as he measured and sawed and planed and hammered.
Le matin, je voulais y passer
à vélo, mais il était déjà trop tard
L’asphalte éventré barrait
l’allée en monticules de déblais
Laisse-moi passer, j’ai supplié,
accorde-moi un dernier regard
Ni les chansons ni les bougies
n’agirent comme lubrifiants
Je t’en prie, père Clement,
au besoin, je peux porter un nœud pap’
Hélas, sa conscience de classe l’emporta
Découragé je me suis
neither sunlight nor darkness: a strange light in the heart and green summer
summer of flight and glass, but such strange, final light,
as though everyone died in one morning, while picking lilies of the valley
and celebrating Ivanov Day, when water
joined with fire; the water spirit celebrated his birthday, lighted
wreaths floated on the river waves, the witch on her stolen horse
galloped to Bald Mountain, her hair streaming, trees crossed
Here I die the death of a Palestinian poetess. Then I live anew as a Palestinian poetess, Becoming, with agonizing leisure, A mystical ode that has traversed nothingness twice over. *** On the canvas of the flood I draw the same picture. Every time you repair its cracks, I break it. On the canvas of the flood I scatter the dust of stars With which I pass the test of cruelty, the schizophrenia of prophecy, And I weep.
in someone’s sitting room
full of postponed bicycle trips to denmark and back.
trifles falling out of my pockets give me away, the shampoo ingredients
I turn into before I ask someone serenely to spill the shampoo
lest I become the most wistful person I know.
it’s as if light bulbs have never fallen from the sky onto our heads for fear of injury.
it was banal and stupid
My hands in your hands become one hand
My hands in your hands one hand
One by one you’re bending my fingers
Making a fist of my hand
You open me out
Your palm against my palm
a slight pressure
and our fingers
You say I love you
Look : I lip-shiver you
and you repeat my name
repeat my name
over and over
and we believe
My eyes calm down
In the peace of sleep
Could you possibly find the name of the City in my own personal riddle;
The Landmark starts on the hill
And my sculpture is the landmark on Koohsangi Hills
Take the letter "Y" as its name
A thousand miles above the Sea Level
Geographically archived on the life line of my Palms
You know, it's my third gravity
And makes the gravity less.
And this last landmark
As if it's a dreamlike bas-relief on KOOHSANGI HILLS
And here it is
if you could
the search for a stopgap
again something separates
the story you tell
that sometimes remove
sometimes add to
the pain of whatever widens
yet seems to narrow
at best you think
a rope bridge
you’d like to bring yourself
to the other side
like to bring
so much to rest
warm leaves in my hands
like a nest
or is it merely your voice
We could ride over the Danube
or sit on the step watching melon-rind drift down the tide
in a summer that is intolerable
while the city is half-asleep or sheltering
near the railway track a long way from the city
which is a long way to whatever music is sung in its tunnels
by the dead who must live there
but rarely appear on the platform
we enter through the doors of the Metro
where the nearest
Only one person
in this world believed me.
If I said that I had just come from an old castle
Up in the mountains.
I have a treasure like none else has ever seen,
I have a lot of unique stories
about demons and angels.
Only one person…
He no longer exists now,
to tell me what to do
with all these things that
no one can believe its existence !!
It was very possible
that I was dead now…
That I have left this unjust idea
Which is like a jungle
that smells like camphor
Sweden! When a narcissist walks by
the birds quit their singing
– would you have noticed?
because I think they can have it
Who dies on a regular day? Who is being sacrificed?
Who is suddenly just gone?
It's such a weird togetherness
that spells being apart
Sweden do you want to be as usual again without covid-19 and
eat potatoes, a sausage from the pot in peace and quiet?
Sweden, this is stupid, Sweden, I can hardly even say it,
I'll pick another name instead, Maria
such is the day
the sun has all but let itself in
the water is boiling start the powdered sesame
a small coniferous forest has been burnt with a cigarette butt
he left it on the table
for me to see
pensioners, do not gather plastic
the sun wants to lift it up into itself
blood must be swooshing in the toilet bowl
can you hear our country cracking
like pine trees in the white cold
a prefab home in the meadow a private cash machine
a car park and a
recycling skip with a lock and key to keep
He were telling me
About the voice of the blood
About the reflections of the wind
About the agitated muses
About the stones that burn
At the same time his eyes were closed
And breathed rapidly
I listened to him carefully
Without blinking my eyes
And in spite of the fact that
He made my flesh crawled
I throw away your
Already really last
The nearby road, town, city, county, region, country, continent.
Can you navigate without a map?
What if you lose your way?
What if you need to return to this field, to the place of burial.
What were you doing in that field?
The body would not be useful alone.
It is true, the body begins
but without the body there is nothing to worry about, absolutely.
You wonder why you just left it out.
Without other people worrying about everything that surrounds the body,
And after a while my sister’s mouth, shaped like
a thimble, does not save my hands from getting
wounded. For anytime I thread the needle, I start
bleeding. How stiff my father used to be,
straightforward, like a needle. He would hit
right in the thimble.
And after a while I embroider my family
with a delicate thread, so they won’t form a tie
so strong and their knots can be easily
torn apart. I can tear, neaten them however
I like and finally get rid of
The routine of portakabins, metal fences
has dissolved into the disinfectant white of waiting rooms,
contoured reception desks, hospital-green sofas.
Habit has been replaced by a sort of determined
stubbornness, though as plans go, I would hardly call it
It was clear: if I carelessly give way to what
by its very nature crops up as temptation,
then a single rash decision can bring with it
a whole caravan of consequences.
You bring your fucking pictures up north too.
In the mornings, you stare at the water. Your ponytailed ancestors
apparently washed the fright off themselves here.
Like a cleanse. The Rhine ate it, gobbled up
everything. In high humidity, the German curse
seeps into the lungs. Now it’s your turn.
A horrible hole beside your bed.
(Instead of head, out of mercy)
Someone put a hole in the wall and used your hand
to do it. A mortar-farce.
Go ahead, watch the darkness.
It’s not only unsanitary,
It’s not monsters or
ghosts they are scared of
but animals that went extinct,
on their mind
those hide under the bed
and take revenge.
There will be happiness too,
spreading at an easy pace
like the heavy smell of food in the corridor
that is impossible to air out of your clothes
even after forgetting the taste.
there the time comes
when you don’t die yet,
only you won’t ever be awake at the same time
and you won’t be able to warn one another.
While downloading some seasons of ER
featuring the young George Clooney,
I was thinking how I could contact him,
and after binge-watching the whole show
I started to do a search. Idris Elba
is on Instagram, what if Clooney’s there too?
But all I could find was ten official fake profiles.
I gave up. The idea came to my mind:
I should write a poem to him. Another
poem of mine, ‘Noah,’ had been published
in an American lit mag. There was a roundtable
organized on young authors
Learn what ‘hot’ means.
Zig-zag hopes. Grottoes at entry points, a Springfall Lake.
Xmas-like sparktreat with no personal objects, prof-looked-down ‘pacifiers’.
Carved, uneven steps. I focus on my breath, adjust my blindfold.
Vic for victim, Vic for victor.
Dante was different, books are different.
Being touched is a privilege, you’re not a pussy. Though you may be a vector.
Not for everyone. The Professor’s choice.
Sometimes I’m standing at the station,
watching the smiling women,
how they laugh, walk, talk,
wearing pretty clothes,
then it comes to my mind:
one day they might be lined up,
who knows what would happen to them
before their execution.
Sometimes I see
crushed bodies everywhere
and I’m searching where
the calm will crack,
where death will step
between the days
and get stuck.
Because something washes,
slashes and splashes us,
From the Evanescento the Here-after,
A Lasting Conscience Breath Puffing Whispers,
Is Leaping Out a Delicate Clementine,
Your Face So Sweet.
When the Sacra
Of Spring unraveled pollen and pistils
Of an adolescent margin
Dreams tasted of plum tangerine
Your embracing arms
Before intersticing fingers
Treaded you a destiny to bear
with your raven shimmering locks
Mandarin moons glittered from,
Your Ambrosian eyes
As if you had never had a face.
You turn away, throw yourself against the wall.
I know if you had been programed to move
You would be pulling down your red blouse,
But you’ve been standing like this for months,
Your hair, ironed straight as an arrow, cannot be disheveled.
Untouchable, like the pieces resembling body parts,
pieces out of which you were assembled.
Your arms cannot rotate at the shoulder, your legs
cannot bend at the knee,
Finally free of an overloaded backpack,
my shoulders roll in time with the waves.
I remove the first stone – daylight reveals the scratched
outline of 'lemons' across it’s smooth centre.
My fingernails spent weeks etching out the vertical
drop of the 'l', the meandering slopes of the 's'.
I think of a yellow cotton dress, the coarse puckering
of her lips, a skyward stare avoiding an open palm.
The lemon stone lands with a splosh and spray.
The next has stale grey surface, starved of salt water.
is this a poem
is this a word
what you expect
(what do you
do you understand
are you even interested
even if it does not
have a message
to ask that kind
I was not born for
the world that exists
but for the world
that does not exist
because it does not exist
the sense flows into
is my existance
hana didn't know it is natural to shave your vagina
until she was in high school and went to the swimming pool with friends hanging out of her swimsuit were blond
because people are mostly friendly and considerate beings, her friends screamed
so you could hear their echoes everywhere around swimming pools and our hana came home crying
then her mother comforted her that pubic hair are
super cool and that in her time girls didn't shave down there.
When I was little I used to be a skinny child
my father would sit next to me
to make sure I would eat
two slices of bread, without the crust.
Time turns the tables
now I sit next to my father
to make sure he eats
two slices of bread, without the crust.
IN THE END (2)
In the end, what remains is the husk,
an empty open shell.
In the end words abandoned him,
he would only repeat “come on” and “give it here”
and he was reaching out for death
as a newborn reaches out for life.
In grandma’s attic, there was
an old painting, we found it
by chance among the jumble and
placed it among the exhibits
in our newly founded
museum. To me, it was the most
beautiful painting I’ve ever
seen. Via neat and light strokes
a nice road led
across Saliger’s Bridge. It seemed
unbelievable to me that
you were able to paint it once, just
a little older than us
when we discovered it.
So, you used to be an artist!
The Bedouins reached the fire immersed with the eulogy,
the groom throw himself in the circle of the dance,
where his parents catch him and he was bristling with arms,
at the top of the mountain, the terrorists advanced on the horses…
passing the night there.
Her heart dejected for the idea that she would die by their hands.
And they tear her young body by daggers.
The Bedouins on the small horses,
in their brocaded belt the short-blades daggers,
j’ai moi-même une tête de chien
je prends le soleil dans ma gueule
et j’en arrache tous les rayons
je te prends par la main
et j’en retire tes doigts un à un
te voilà devenue moignon
nous ne nous parlons plus
nos langues sont cousues à nos lèvres
et nos lèvres sont tuméfiées
les mots perdent leur substance
et deviennent fragiles comme du verre
ils se brisent au contact de la pensée
on tourne en rond dans le noir
comme des insectes prisonniers
de la lumière d’une lampe
I'll give up my night
For the wolf that I have left behind
He’s toing and froing
In forgotten valleys
I'll give him another chance
To abandon his old game.
I said to the wolf: I will tell you a story
Of an Andalusian gypsy, consumed by the confusion of the city
You will be healed
As you discover that you are not the only one
Who celebrates his dead dreams!
This is not a secret confession
As everyone will give up one day
their little delights.
The adventure of concealed life
Is the only certainty.
parfois les mots
parfois les mots d’amour
décuplent le vide retors
dupliquent le vide autour
une sortie d’air
ils trouvent leur sens
dans l’idée d’absence
alors je m’abstrais
sans rien laisser
à la perpétuité
parfois je suis
prise au carrefour
entre les feux
d’une mélancolie rouge
La troupe avait percé la blanche canopée
Et, progressivement, la marche des épées,
Des brigandines sous la nature océan
Fut engloutie par les étoles du néant.
Seuls les arcs argentés coiffant les pertuisanes
Ondulaient de rayons au-dessus des lianes.
Les chasseurs progressaient, pas aveugles, prudents,
La voix était un guide -un soutien évident
Lorsque la peur inonde un ventre de grisailles.
Lorsque soudain, devant !... Un souffle de broussailles.
Un craquement de bois ! Ils pointèrent les lances
Rivière en mon sommeil
quelque chose ici me retient et m’absente
j’appartiens au paysage
à l’autre versant
je glisse entre les marges
une voix me murmure ses anges
et je songe
si loin de revenir
Dans le silence froid des nuits d’obsidienne
aux heures tristes et lentes
je m’absente parfois
si lasse et somnolente
et sous les réverbères
où ma voix sans issue
se dissout dans l’asphalte
je me souviens des soirs d’hiver
et j’espère encore
Des dizaines de pas descendent nonchalamment
un escalier qui grince. La pièce ne s’allume pas,
une torche électrique sert de lumière pour
éclairer la cave. Un jeune homme est étalé à
même le sol, sur un parterre froid et humide, les
mains nouées dans le dos. Ce dernier entrouvre
les paupières pour aussitôt les refermer. La
lumière artifcielle lui brûle des yeux habitués
à la pénombre.
La sève du temps est tarie
Les fleurs du passé sont fanées
Nos âmes sont flétries
Une cascade de larmes
ne nous épargne guère
ne nous épargne rien plutôt
ni les revers ni les jets de pierres
ni la ferveur ni la misère
ni la chance ni l’embarras
ni le chagrin ni l’étreinte
ni l’espoir ni la perte
Une cohorte de cris sourds
soudain se dévoile
Les sommets noirs
de cette année de malaria
sont remplis à ras bord
Une armée de silences se rétablit
on the street you hear street noise and planes
you get into the car: jazz
you get out of the car: street noise
the jazz continues – you’re just not hearing the jazz
broadcasts, webcasts, whatever
solely consisting of jazz
of specific subsets of jazz
radio stations for specific styles:
the delegation of choice
in some number of English kitchens
radios are playing Classic FM
to no-one because
the occupants are out in the garden
la lumière du matin
redessine au sol
les lattes des persiennes.
Nous cachons nos yeux
dans les replis des draps
et retrouvons un sommeil
de molle fatigue.
Nos corps assoupis
et le temps en attente.
Matinée de fin de semaine,
les heures défilent interminables
et j’entends ton sourire,
me vient l’envie imbécile
de conjuguer l’amour.
Et toi tu me regardes
et, tandis que ta main
caresse mon visage
et souligne mes contours,
This poem should be written in English.
This poem should be written in German.
This poem should be written in French,
In Swedish, in Spanish, in my adorable Norwegian,
Maybe in Finnish, Danish and Dutch.
Baltic languages should decide for themselves.
No Belarusian version for the poem,
No Russian version for the poem,
No Ukrainian version for the poem.
The rest are at your choice.
This poem should be written in the languages
De la grande fenêtre de ton salon
nous observons les oiseaux dans leur maisonnette
qui elle aussi a sa grande fenêtre
en miniature, le large toit en pente et une terrasse
où durant tout l’hiver tu as semé
quelque chose de semblable à l’amitié.
Nous les observons à l’heure du repas
des oiseaux, plus ou moins onze heures pour nous,
quand ils se massent tous entre frémissements d’ailes,
éclairs de couleur becs plastronnant petits yeux vifs.
As in all the places where we will arrive for the first time
We follow the cathedral’s bells: it is the easiest way to uncover
The inside of the city. We follow the smell of roasted meat, of rye bread, of coffee:
Our bodies, almost transparent from the airport’s neon and noise
Demand the taste of something simple.
We sleep pressed tightly together, we, children of our own restlessness,
Sometimes finding order in the rhythm of the other.
Vanished under some boots,
Charity ain't no good
When varnished tongs
Spit venom everyday.
Of a dark matter
You are all made,
Don't interrupt the light
Or you'll head to the dark
Night with no savior.
I know your tricks,
World of hate,
But light grew in me
And love turned me red
Your charity goes into nothingness
And clowns divert you from the truth;
White collars have the hand on you
While my racing heart is expecting
You, my love lost in these dark times.