It smells of gas and ferment.
Obliquely across the pavement,
Vans: oblique letters,
red teats on the underbelly.
Smoldering people
unload
one more generation of babies,
curse ritually.
Black, blind bricks
don't betray
when the blockade is over;
abruptly, like an odor.
It's half past five. In the gardens
behind the city, it's drizzling,
and along the avenue, caraway seeds
are scattered.
Half past five. Half-gods,
we're deep in the bread,
not yet risen, not yet touched
by the palms of steel and the sun.
Translated by Sam Witt
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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