they will flee to paris
they will flee to india
they will hide in a cardboard shack
they will go anywhere
just to be left alone
where they will not be shot or beaten or turned insane by their own kind
these are the few
who have stolen the fire.
living on the fringe
striking daily some spark from a flake of flint
some juice of thought
these are the few...
miller scrabbling for crumbs in a dustbin
celine walking down the street with dogs for protection,
pound thrown into a cage
their kind
encounter a hatred and jealousy unmatched
by those who have tried and failed -
those terrified of an empty belly
those who bury themselves into terrible jobs,
into soul-destroying acts of conformity.
and the few who have stolen the fire
do so willingly
do so without protection
and do so
at a price
you would not
believe.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
juice of thoughts- stolen fire, good one