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