Cold Holes

It is the difference between “nylon” and cement,
their time that she was watching it sneaking out of the tents’ holes, a cold stream,
trying, with the threads of mud, to weave additional covers around the shivering bodies,
comes out of the opposite end, dragging the continued bleeding of the dreams about the hallucination of the “warm tomorrow”, towards other bodies, shiver more, dream less.
She was watching it,
while she is tricking the last “ball” of dough
to stretch it as much as possible a wide loaf
may be enough with some “miraculous”, for a swarm of the hungry stomachs’ birds to land in,
at the beginning of dawn
and they were on other planets throwing the food surpluses into huge waste dumps.

*(*

It’s the difference between the firework’s rockets being launched at the holidays, towards the sky,
to illuminate the darkness of collective fear aroused by the night,
And the rockets being launched by the sky’s minerals towards the earth,
so others pass by them to a gate of a fear, an oldest one, a desired one.

*)*

She was tickling a circle of light tattooed by the wedding ring she mortgaged to get the “ball” of dough, so she can remember having a man, nothing was left of, except a penumbral circle of pain.
and a loaf, not enough for the whole swarm of birds to land in,
some of them died,
while they were, on other planets, arranging the collective weddings with the brightness of gold.

*(*

They were more beautiful in the pictures, that’s how we were love to see them in the time’s freezer,
that’s how, who took the pictures, tried to make us feel,
we were, secretly, before every sleep, remembering them, bite on our hearts, curse God, and cry.

*)*

It is the difference between disability and ability,
to carry a gun,
or to carry your beloved ones, all of them, in a wallet its leather was peeled by the time,
while you take the last inhalation of the combination of gunpowder and adrenalin,
then leave alone,
towards prospects without bullets,
or towards a bullet, you thought it the last,
put it quietly in your head lying next to your open wallet
after you finally discovered that the ability was nothing but a deficit, not yet overripe.

*)*

It is the difference between besieged cities
And the cities that besiege you,
the simple capture of the aesthetics of the place:
Kisses of the little feet, under the wooden benches in schools, instead of listening with stupid intently to an explanation about the “direct and indirect causes” of endless human wars.
Finding a time for the hysterical dancing at night, on the edge of a bridge, instead of the Olympic running behind things they told us to “chase”, so we ran.
The mysterious weeping in front of a green sweat cracks the Asphalt, instead of wailing in front of a slow, endless train of the bodies of friends.

*(*

When we released the first scream at the face of the gentle old man who wanted to whisper “birth incantation” in our ears,
we were not born,
we were, just, postponing the entering into the curse of diodes.
When we tried the roughness of our voices at puberty, by yelling in the mouth of a well,
we were not born yet,
it was our first experience in making acoustic bombs
When did we born, then ?!
Perhaps, when we were persuaded to split a cocoon of astonishment with Kalashnikov’s “spear”, instead of a kiss,
to shave the first fluff on our faces, with it
and with it;
we peeled one day the apples, for the wounded of the enemy so they recover quickly and stand full of “pride” at the moment we executed them with “live” bullets.

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