My Morning

"today, i saw angels up the palace walls…"
the Blind Minstrel


crawling down and up again -
worms of last, whom they disdain.
nothing left to eat, to crawl, -
only angels up the wall.
dancing slowly on the stars
the People saw them not.
now the smog, the fire, the cars
keep them chained - to rot…

where are those worms of last when needed?
all dead of hunger and thirst…
i saw - they lay and bleeded, bleeded…
up to seeing the worst…

their enemies were not of flesh
and not of spirit either.
they die - in fire, in sea, in crash
but still they die in neither.
no choice, no hope, no fear, no home,
and needed they are mostly.
who knows they are to stand alone
in a surrounding ghostly?

their days are filled with endless quarrels,
siegeing and defending their homes.
nothing but a single piece
of Tree of Death is left to them,
and each has given another a kiss -
a killing kiss, a racial anthem…

oh when will they finally, finally perish
for not to keep the worms too long?
the worms will crawl, devour their fetish
and open the gates of paradise,
and then the People, fat and strong,
will enter and wash off their guise…

my morning lasts, my uterus burns,
with flames it"s daylit.
the pain"s unbearable. no one earns
but me. and no one helps it.
my lifeless fingers stroke the page -
but nothing there they find.
up here, in my fiery cage
i"m equally deaf and blind.

(7 августа 2000, 12:45; мысли во время менструации)