they are all here
again, waiting and blaming
saying that i am so
disgusting
for not doing anything about
them.
i look closely
they have no faces
no clear cut lines
no marks whatsoever
to distinguish one from
another
i choose the hour of silence
sitting there
wanting to still the world
that keeps on moving
it is asking, why change?
why move? why leave everything
why not preserve this and this
and then forget and then lose
and then be everything
the riddle is too much for the
Sphinx to live
it has more answers to die
and it did
and comes here the man
who is the answer for all the
questions
that the hero made
all questions broke
like a poor man who was once rich
and lost everything
because of fear
Hercules had fallen
Oedipus had gone blind
the Furies are singing
Orpheus is reborn
all the tools begin their
journey towards the purpose for
which they were invented
here you are
prettier when dumb
happier when dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem