The parade passes by. We were on the
sidelines eating our candy and applauding.
Why? There was not one uniform that
represented us. Not one flag that we could
claim as our own. We didn't even need to see
the flags. They were not symbols of ours.
In reality they were symbols of echoes that
we shouted a long time ago. Why struggle
when the battle is already lost? Why complain
when the reasons for doing so have been
neglected in the dripping sonnets of a forgotten
poet. He sat in a closet composing his love
for a majorette in the parade. She was
his cotton candy and so he wanted
to slurp every molecule of her mind into
his own. But his words are not dusted once
a week in a book on a library shelf. The majorette
is dead, or at best old and forgotten. The title
of the book does not even ring a bell.
The parade goes on, but the marchers
have changed their identities. The uniforms
remain always the same. Who was it that
decided that gold lame and blue satin were
the proper colours for marching in the street?
Why? Isn't this what it always comes down to?
Why? Who can jump into the parade with
a ready made answer? Not I. Not you.
Not any of the other billions upon billions
of sleeping undertakers burying
their souls in the parade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem