They


And if perhaps, sometime, somewhere, you were remade?
Would I assume again an arbitrary distance
To give inertia to your malicious vacuum?
Or would it then, there, perhaps be different
Would you be blossoms that satisfy their thirst with violence
Which waters my thoughts here and now?
Would it then be the gland tax I used to pay
Something more beautiful, more archangelic
Something less human, less filthy
Something worthy of an animal rife with innocence?

And all the times when I shut the world outside
All the times when I locked it inside
Away from the words and the gestures
All the times when I bled for one of you
Because I hurt for all of you
All the times when I hated you
Because you didn’t know how to love
All the times that I wanted you to drain
From all the blood you wasted inside you
All the times I wanted you to silence
The noise that wasted the significance
Are all these forgiven?

For all the times I asked for a guarantee
To invest some soul into compassion
All the times that I hesitated
To appear bighearted and cheap
An Offer to your Sale
All those days that fled
In your study and sorting
In the cold selection of the bloodless
From the empty
Of the lost in the street
From those lounging in front of the fireplace
Of the greedy from the ungrateful
Of the deficient from the phoney
All those days that don’t come back
Are they compensated for?

But you will always be the easy
Spectators sitting on deep purple sofas
Gazing above, the grand scene
The backs of the big people
And the ornaments with flesh and lie
You will hang – extras in the background.
The seasons and the landscapes will change
And from Poe’s many angels
Not even one will see that somewhere
Far down in the background
The extras will be dying.

It will be of no importance
The funny, colorful and white life
In this large empty self-serving purpose:
Life was just there to be.
It will be of no importance
Who you are, for how long and where
But what if everything was remade
Maybe some time, somewhere?

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