And the problem is that we believe all this grief,
and love it;
live it, graze it, see it, lick it, chew it, smell it, squeeze it, fight with it,
somersault with it on the cliffs grass as a tiger babies.
then, at the first attack of the crows on the wheat of our smiles,
we cling it with our claws, such as a dry straw toy,
that we did ignite it but it never been burned.
we whisper to it every morning:
about a bald children, who learned to dig tombs, their tombs, with nails, too early.
skies, that have not been punctured by pollution, but by the staring of a ninetieth man who got bored of the land.
women, who got the yesterday milking out of their breasts, black as a corrupt blood
about cruel men,
before their last wreck on the beaches turned into worn-out lifeboats, that carry their beloved ones through the pathways of fear, to the side of the no fear.
stations, that the pictures are being left on their waiting chairs,
moist, lonely, before the time, slowly slowly, erases its features.
windows, that tremble in a deliberate violence in order to that someone closes them,
but no one,
doors became closed forever, the whale swallowed its keys.
the foolish teenage boxes, how, like any precious treasure, buried under the rubble.
that we have trained well on loneliness,
on searching nightly between lanes for anyone who we can see, touch,
too many days we played Hideaway in childhood.
That when we tattooed our names on the skin of that old tree at the foot of the high
we did not ask her which tattoo did she loves, she did not say
It was enough for her that stupid good heart between two letters.
about the last offspring of birds, how received a bullet instead of a frightened soldier, who was screaming, crying:
war, life, is a battle without honour.
the sun, that bluffs us every night by the moon.
sadness beginning and the end of philosophy:
a fetus who finished his nine months with meditation,
then hanged himself with his own umbilical cord, just before the moment of birth.
– Talk to me about water,
about beginnings that are not looking for an end,
girls who are in each war burning their left finger ring with embers, then marry the coffins,
children who play “glass balls” with the eyes of victims, in a hole that was made by a shell,
birds that wear the metal anti-bullet feathers, and move on the wheelchairs,
fragile stars, fall down once looking at them,
homelands, that carried out its soil, by handfuls fists of those who departed,
about that mysterious whining that keeps on howling in abandoned cities,
and about this annoying noise near your left lung
when will it stop?