• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 09


It’s never meant to be a hallelujah,
just a cluster of natural colours,
out of which a pair of enquiring eyes is
lobbing a question at you in parabola.
But you’d like to put that question
aside, or better, clean out of your mind:
no urban myths, no apocalypse ―
there’s no time, there’s simply no time.

A nightmare above, an idyllic dream below;
you worry about both. Loneliness
is a nocturnal form; chances are,
it’ll soon be gone; and yet
you’d rather look for a moon somewhere,
where you don’t belong. None of this
is the kind of things you care to know,
what you surmise is, there’s no way swords
would ever turn into ploughshares
― non sequiturs, hullabaloo…

And yet you keep asking yourself:
Where is the Other? Where, O where?
A question that makes no sense:
Why, all the shapes have become circular!
It’s an anthem for the wretched,
a most unlikely siren song;
whereas only the young
are to be seen, even though
they’ll inevitably grow old,
and one day they’ll have to be told.