Hands
You'd be amazed of the amount of strengthThat hides in these 5 bony fingers
Like in an ancient cave:
They could even hold the world and
Tiresomely mould it into the deranged ideals
Of their mistress.
They – so slender and faint – hold the world/the entire globe
Of drunkards and hesitators;
Of old people who fall apart, lose their teeth
And almost suffocate in their own wrinkles;
Of babies with pink ribbons who get abused
Because the planets have decided that the timing is all well;
Of mothers who despise the bullet that killed their son
And yet keep it in a tiny silver box under the bed;
Of men who live their whole life suffering from psychosis
And then, just like that – get hit by a morning train;
Of all the unstable people, no balance whatsoever;
Of all those psychopaths, perverts, incompetent musicians
And freckled little red-heads with a too-good intuition;
Even lunatics, fratricides and delirious mad women...
My right hand holds the world of crucified souls –
Their crosses nailed (barbarically) in my skin,
Like it's some kind of infertile ground –
That's how I feel their pain and love it...
My left hand holds no worlds of losses.
So shouldn't I just chop it off and feel repellent?
Give me the world of drunkards and hesitators,
Of psychopaths, lunatics and unstable people
And I'll thank you from the heart.
At least they are more interesting
Than all the happy moralists the world is so full of...
Poetry by Francesca Georgia Luca
Read 663 times
Written on 2006-12-15 at 20:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Victor |
