they seem always to be happier
spreading mess like confetti from a tall dark red building
in the middle of the city
it is not the ordinary mess that you see on the streets
it is professional and too deceiving
authorized as it is with
the validity of the laws of their own creation
we who are below and who watch these makings
grit our teeth like we are grilled in hell
as a matter of internalization
it becomes evident that we who want to be clean
are the most unhappy people on this patch of the earth
perhaps that is the nature of this world
it is more of the scattering rather than the keeping
it is more of the destruction rather than the intricacy of the web of creation
trigger-happy are the murderers of the master plan
and those who want to keep things alive and intact
neat and beautiful
are always the mourners of the morgue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A really fantastic poem, like it,