Motorbike - Poem by Oskar Hansen
My motorbike has been on the terrace during the winter
I cleaned it and tried to start it, alas, the battery was
flat so I tried to kick start it but gave up got to get someone
with strong legs and muscular arms to start it.
At this time – spring- in Algarve there are flowers that
only last a week or so and so delicate that if you pick one
it will become a wizen face and die in your hand a hungry
child by the gaslight in the slums of Soho.
Some flowers are too delicate for human hands and can
only be handled by angels with fingers soft as a silk scarf.
When I take pictures of the flowers they come up blank
like they belong to a religious sect that does not believe
in idolatry. Splendour should be shared, if you see it alone
it is like being an old man with Mona Liza in his vault.
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