At night I can only look at you
through a keyhole.
Sitting on one knee, on the floor,
I go on writing my thoughts
on pieces of cloth.
Locked in a motionless day
I keep busy
cutting my memory in perfect squares
to check how small
you became over the years.
I measure and trim
the infinite distance
between the rooms in my heart
with blunt scissors
we had more time or at least
we had more courage
But all we did in those days was sleep.
We were very good at keeping quiet
until the moment
silence, at last, settled in.
You see, it can rain with blood drops.
The proof the white shirt I’ve been wearing for the past two days
on my walks through the city.
I have been saying all along that
someone died there at the top floor
but you keep reading, ask me to
sit down and drink the cup of tea
before it gets cold.
Death is not a matter of your concern, you say,
we have to hope like everyone else
for a better world and
let the justice be done.
Of course, but I
always like the tea very cold,
my hopes interrupt your thought process
as they remind you every day that
growing old means nothing.
I am the same unnecessary love,
making a spectacle of myself,
making a revolution out of silvery-grey ribbons.
In the big void, I keep standing up
with my stained shirt still on
and say no.
You arrived at night like sudden news
Dropped on the wooden floor
Through the letter box
And said that I looked
Like a drawing on a white wall to you so
We rolled our sleeves up
And made poems out of clay.
Each word left a trace on my skin
The time just added thousands and thousands of marks
Bites of land which the current spat out.
The poems had no weight so
We captured them in small bottles,
Let them float away in the air;
Brief prayers to comfort
The dying in their last hour of pain.
Nothing disturbed the stillness of the moment
Nothing at all
But the unsettled dark owl
Kept watching us from afar.
The sunrise about to burst in.