> The third world

The third world

Par | 2018-05-26T06:16:35+00:00 12 avril 2013|Catégories : Blog|

 

Damned of the earth are stan­ding up
and pri­so­ners of star­va­tion
are stan­ding also up
tall black beau­ti­ful are stan­ding up
like dead cypresses
the dump of the world is stan­ding up
in the scor­ched savan­nas

they are col­lec­ting their bones
stretch once again their skin
lis­te­ning to the hum­ming of des­pair
rat­tling with their cof­fee bodies
without a crumble of strength for anger and rebel­lion
they are rai­sing their eyes to the dry sky
their hands towards brave europes
their heads towards pro­mi­sed ame­ri­cas

and the world is tur­ning never­the­less
in salons of glit­te­ring cities
dust is sno­wing slow­ly
while dead chil­dren are fal­ling
to the tem­po of car engines
to the dithy­ramb of hys­te­ri­cal shop­ping
to the rhythm of constant diets
to the nice pro­to­col of ser­mons
to the buz­zing of stock exchanges
and into the tiny mor­sels the first world is crum­bling
and the second
and the third
it’s spin­ning around indif­fe­rent­ly
this wret­ched world
one and only
Mediterranean, Mediterranean

When the old snake hisses
in the cra­cked church
and the flut­te­ry flock spreads to the sun
and oranges roll down the stairs
the blood of toma­toes will spurt on the square
glis­te­ning olives will shine on tables
under olean­ders cica­das will chirp
fis­su­red figs will fall into our laps
and we will be sit­ting under swol­len grapes
when the juice of pome­gra­nates will splash
and the bosoms of ripe women will bloom
and san­dals will clat­ter
and dresses will flut­ter
like sails in the storm
and the ancient marble will clang
and ships will anchor
and the mar­ket will mur­mur
and the linen will dance
the slow tan­go of the south
and the sea will bend under fish swarms
and nets will swell
while masts shine on in the heat
and palms and life
fall into the red twi­light
the eve­ning of fies­ta and fever will spread
into the night of sin and the car­ni­val of plen­ty
before in the ear­ly mor­ning the gyp­sies come
to col­lect rub­bish
on the fan­cy beaches of the white latins
while on the waste open seas
from the sha­ky rafts only black hands
will cry and long for the false para­dise
Bildungsroman
(The Balkans, 1990-2000)

Through the long streets of this raw hol­low
a horde of young hye­nas is wal­king
hot phos­pho­rus is oozing from their eyes
and on the asphalt there fly sizz­ling
icy knives under their steps.

Till yes­ter­day they used to play marbles
with the eyes they picked up on the street
whe­ne­ver they craw­led out for a moment
from the base­ments of fine rui­ned houses.
They also played hang­man
until they once saw a han­ged man on the street
and it became boring
then they played catch-me-if-you-can
but many of them got caught fore­ver
so they got sick of it
then they played hide-and-seek
but their parents put their hands on their eyes
even when it was no play­time
and told them not to spy with their lit­tle eye
turn their head away hide in the far­thest cor­ner
and count as long as they can…
that was not much of a game.
They tried to play cow­boys and indians
but they couldn’t agree who lives in a reser­va­tion
they played balls bet­ween two fires
till it burnt through on both sides
they played
crou­ching
shrin­king
trem­bling in the dark
and some­times cra­ned their necks from their lairs
to see a patch of the sky and stars
(when their breasts were swel­ling from sen­se­less hope)

But here they are
pop­ping out from shab­by holes
like hun­gry beasts
the veins fli­cke­ring on their taut limbs
they show grin­ning their tape­red fangs
blood bub­bling in their eyes
they are coming
war­med-up played-up
car­rying clot­ted anger in their stiff bones
and brin­ging
(catch them if you can)
com­ple­te­ly new
rules of the game
 

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