I stood shaving one morning
in front of the open window
on the second floor.
Switched on the razor.
It started to purr.
It whirred louder and louder.
Grew into a roar.
Grew into a helicopter
and a voice—the pilot’s—pierced
through the noise, shouting:
“Keep your eyes open!
You’re seeing this for the last time.”
We lifted off.
Flew low over the summer.
So much that I loved, does it have any weight?
So many dialects of green.
And above all, the red walls of the wooden houses.
The beetles glistened in the dung, in the sun.
Cellars being pulled up by the roots
wafted through the air.
Activity.
The printing presses crawled along.
At that instant, the people
were the only ones who kept still.
They held a minute of silence.
And above all, the dead in the country graveyard
were still
like those who posed for a photo in the camera’s youth.
Fly low!
I didn’t know which way
to turn my head—
with my visual field divided
like a horse.
No comments:
Post a Comment