about how our dreams can spring from the mess of everyday's life..
Where life stays frozen as an iceberg,
Where kittens walk on brown eggshells
And break their fragile, transparent claws
While haunted away by the homeless
With interesting life stories;
In the wilderness of the hospital forest,
Where mushrooms grew and got torn out the earth
Without any consideration for the direction of their growth –
Were hundreds of graves on top of the hill,
I used to climb without fear;
In the alley of fountains, white outfits and handsome men,
Who were the subject of my fascination,
When I was still learning about injections
And watching diseases of soldiers
Through a heavy black microscope.
(One soldier even cried).
In the neighbourhood of carpets,
Where sunflower seeds got thrown on the streets
Out of anger towards a lover;
Where dolls with blue eyes started to rot on the inside,
Where people were people
And rottweilers were rabbits;
In the valley of snow, tasting snowflakes
And being warm in the middle of buried stones;
In the time that I could smell yellow field flowers
During the winter –
My dreams were born...
Poetry by Francesca Lucca
Read 834 times
Written on 2006-11-19 at 13:35
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Kittens on brown eggshells
In the old streets, next to the trash containers,Where life stays frozen as an iceberg,
Where kittens walk on brown eggshells
And break their fragile, transparent claws
While haunted away by the homeless
With interesting life stories;
In the wilderness of the hospital forest,
Where mushrooms grew and got torn out the earth
Without any consideration for the direction of their growth –
Were hundreds of graves on top of the hill,
I used to climb without fear;
In the alley of fountains, white outfits and handsome men,
Who were the subject of my fascination,
When I was still learning about injections
And watching diseases of soldiers
Through a heavy black microscope.
(One soldier even cried).
In the neighbourhood of carpets,
Where sunflower seeds got thrown on the streets
Out of anger towards a lover;
Where dolls with blue eyes started to rot on the inside,
Where people were people
And rottweilers were rabbits;
In the valley of snow, tasting snowflakes
And being warm in the middle of buried stones;
In the time that I could smell yellow field flowers
During the winter –
My dreams were born...
Poetry by Francesca Lucca
Read 834 times
Written on 2006-11-19 at 13:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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