Bibliothek-Café on Potsdamer Straße 33

Autor: ladi sadiv bodik | 23.12.2016 o 11:15 | (upravené 30.12.2016 o 22:08) Karma článku: 0,00 | Prečítané:  47x

(December '16, Berlin before the attack; Aleppo razed to the ground already)

 

People sitting around here: a jolly bunch playing cards amid the hard core studying nerds

of whom I am one these days.

These are the days when I get to be inside -

the place is warm and cozy,

others and I drink Schwarzkaffee mit Milch for 1.30€ with no

apparent shame -

the truck's still parked in a depot in the east or south of Berlin.

Outside the freezing windy world is burning on a funeral pyre

- skulls half burnt, turned to ash and dust,

cremation fully accomplished under the patronage

of russian missiles over Aleppo - the principal cremation ground these days.

Eyes pierced with sorrow,

Eyes filled with greed and contempt of the soon to be fallen

comrades of the rotten balls unit –

heartless fuckers‘ disease spreading around the globe - for what?

Not oil, I suppose, everybody’s got plenty.

For what then? A disposable hyperdose of acknowledged Tuesday authority?

The power-junkies are back -

They hate Teslas, they hate love, they hate themselves and serve

the worst instant coffee for the masses, for billions, for millions of human lives.

Mary - Stella Maris - and you have to be watching this.

 

Cohen passed.

A substitute awaits, it’ll soon arrive – I dream of tens of thousands of jesuses who would

emerge out of nowhere to reinvent the frozen electronic hearts loved ten thousand times

on a social network and zero point two times in real life scenarios.

Frozen grounds, cremation grounds, frozen hearts, quicksand grounds of mislead emotions,

people with seeing eyes still blind –

how deep can you fall – or have to – to know that this is no road to be taken* -

Frost is dead and Frost took another road, not this road,

this one will make a galaxy of a difference, an exploding galaxy of a difference.

I weep – deep within – for my mother is getting old

I know she is tired, her potential unused, used up and abused.

Why am I here? Why?

I am here to keep on carryin‘ on,

Mother Earth – i am your middle-aged agent with no name, no ego, no plan,

a mere vision of better tomorrows -

So don´t you worry,

don't worry. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* Narážka na báseň Roberta Frosta, "The road not taken"

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