we don’t exist
we just try
looking thru the thick bottle bottom glass
we float inside loneliness
like ephemerides
please don’t think of us
don’t even mention us during dinner
or during those long hours of idle talk
when rain never stops
and the dreams are grey
nobody knows our plan
but we try
to escape the dictionary
and the perpetual tendency
to exist
ils sont partis sans ailes
malades de solitude
parmi les couronnes des arbres
ils sont partis sans moi
je suis restée la feuille des mots
dans ta maison de riz
aux fenêtres aveugles
je suis restée le dernier livre sur les vagues indifférentes
the world is pouring into you
a waterfall
a rush
a once in a lifetime
you drink your usual earl grey
milk, no sugar
under a pile of clouds
you feed your pigeons in squares
and think:
am I too old for this
what shall I wear tonight?
your streets are blushing with joy
like the cheeks of a woman in love
I too am in your blood,
a cocktail of sounds,
I hold a little boy’s hand
and in his eyes,
two blue wide screens,
you slowly open up your robes
and wave
knocks at my thought
from the thought of the ocean
a paddle
lost by a boat in a memory wave
like a submerged rock surrounded by walls
where from a whimper departs
silences go out to greet him in the evening
witnesses being only the mornings
lost through ports
no one hears his grief
tuck to his chest like a poniard
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