© 2008 - 2017


-

Archiv

Blogger news

Blogger templates

 

+

Umblättern

Kategorien

 

Memorial 6

First went the mother, then went the daughter
the rhythm was by no means fair but what is
20 years exchanged for a couple of months

they reside under the belly of the village
between the steep hills, the heavy clouds
surrounded by tall trees and buildings

when you breathe you breathe thick there
however all is thinner, less visible, silent, cold
embraced by the neighborhoods and progress

the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window
the seething in my chest, the dust under the seat
they call every expedition product of formality

stuffed in their Sunday clothes on Saturday
they'll all mourn over the parfumed pentanediamine of their dearest
days are falling back to their small

early night late morning early night late morning
early night late morning early night late morning
early night late morning early night late morning

they are far from gone they are diminished to our initial dust
from moving mass to moving mass to moving mass to stillness
quiet please
I'm listening to the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window
the seething in my chest, the dust under every piece 
the million faces of bad violence.