A Poem
My house,A stage amidst the greenery,Built on a corner, at the crossroads…Facing the street,A street where thoughts go nowhere.My house,A small stage, huge before the world…Where the dramas and tragedies of the time are played…Desires race at the crossroadsLoaded in cars, carts, and bicycles…By life, the unequal!
A gentleman calls out:“Watermelon… watermelon… watermelon… sweet and good…Planted with will and desire,By a poor and frozen heart…”An expensive car pulls up,And buys his life so very cheap.
Cars racing byIn a frantic race,Transforming the dream into pain.Suddenly at the crossroads,Unintentionally,A crash occurs.A crash and then, cries, blood…The drama and the actors caught in a snare,I, from the stage of my balcony,Watch them with sorrow and pain.
In an instantThe traffic falls silent,Chirping dies away from a vineyard.A bird flees in a rushBeating its wings, flying off in fear.Only silence remained at the crossroads,The head of state passes by with his entourage…Loud cheersPromises greet the sky,Shouts take over the space.The leader has nothing in his hands,Yet he never stops giving…The trees begin to rustleTo drown out the cheers.The unharmonized wind through the branches,Breaks into shapeless, senseless pieces…The birds of the nationHave no food to make it through the winter…Then the echo fades, vanishes,Life begins again at the crossroads,Promises and the truth at war…
Evening falls at the crossroads,The moon comes down and lights the lanternsThe stars wake up and come out earlier.Winds blow at the crossroadsInjustice, justice, with a trial, without a trial!The wind blows…From afar comes the smell of gunpowder,Time upon my stagePlays strange comedies.
Dozens of ambassadors gather,Like dozens of actorsThey promise calm and peace,Everywhere they drop bombs,They open rivers of blood.They speak the language of the atomTo the four corners of the globe.After death and starvationThey open the mouth of the cauldron,Amidst shouts and promisesThey hand out a few crumbs…
At the crossroadsBefore the yard and the gateI see the comediansAnd the actors of the dramas of the time…My balcony,The telescope that watches the planet of hungerDrinking from the teat of injustice.
I,On my balcony am a baker of tormentsI knead the white bread of thoughts.Bread, bread that the mad world demands,To wash away the pains and sufferings…But my breadIs the white bread of unityKneaded and baked in the oven of creation.The world must buy as much as it can,So there is no poverty, thirst, and violence…To gain knowledge, peace, and culture,So that feeling is not stoned to death,But carefully built, like a musical score..
I, a bakerCovered all over in flour,Look like an elderly man,Every white hair an experience gained.Take, please, pies, bread, and buns,For the spiritual nourishment of every day…For the path of knowledge is a long pathThat grants peace, love,Grants you spring throughout the seasons.
My balcony at the crossroadsWhere songs race, crash, and break,Where pain drips from the weary man’s sleeves.My balcony,A magnificent stageWhere we take sufferings by the handAnd dine in the taverns.
My balcony,A stage where every dayI harvest the pains, the joys,And with them I build my poems…A stage,Where lies and the truth,Come out and are played as life itself brings them…
Crossroads,A stage without directors and makeup,Where the rich man tattoosThe poor man who numbs his pain with hashishTurning his life into sawdust.The true directors of the stage,Have the very look of a hyena.They hide behind the curtains every day,And conduct the tragedies upon the world…
My balcony,A large window without wings,Beautiful, ugly, with lights, without lights…Where like in a widescreen filmYou watch and understand how the world has become,A torn suit,That neither scissors nor needle can cut and sew.And I, with a poet’s pen,Know how to draw its biography and portrait.I watch it from my window,Sometimes I cry, sometimes I laugh,Sometimes I sit and mock the world, and sometimes myself.I gather the winds, the thoughts, and crumble them into a mash…The mash of a mindless world,That is shat upon and not even the dogs will eat…
