In the numbness of an evening,
There is me,
And there is you .
There is us.
But we can’t see them.
In the shadows, we brush, we touch.
In the meadows, we lie and tell
The stories untold, « unsacred » on the negro streets
And we round in circles on the antique site of domino love ;
We fire the cross that binds, we trespass on the secrets revealed ;
We listen to the « holy »land of « mother-doom »
Of incense and smell ;
On the verge of insanity
And low humanity,
Locked up by unwantedness ;
Uncrushed by the rolling fires of a silent river and coiling stones
In an uncarved scenery like the one of deep trouble.
In « unseen », the colors are fading, ragging the nerves to shreds.
I imagine a world of beauty in the ruins of our time ,
Of walking men in the deep light of an urban dazzle
That blinds the eye that wandered in the woods just before
And got used to the quiet dimness
But the sound of police caught up, was too loud and disrupting
And the unheard cry of people dying alone
Was the shout of the siren from the ambulance.
It all shattered, but yet,
The tree was so serene,
The leaves were hanging
As if by a graceful hand suspended.
The airy leafy sunny warm day
Was full of sweat ,
And water was running
On a forehead
That doesn’t understand
Where is the pain of work?
Nowhere to be seen.
Where is the cool rest of things expressed ?
It lies with bare hands, or a sliding tong, that seeks the leek of another cavity, to finally rest muted, by the fire of love in a womb unsought, in a tomb unclad, unearthed from any earthly concern, haha, that’s the real death, rest !
O finally rest ! And a pale smile of the ones who come back to Him unconcerned anymore.
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