Saturday, April 4, 2015

From a High Roof

on a high roof
there's nothing to look up to
and you can live
and you can die
and the rats won't bother
and the history of the universe won't matter
the ways and means are all the same
but the ladders are all broken
and the bulldogs are all dead
and the sparrows are all Philomela 

on a high roof
we won't fight for land and bread
we will look at the stars and tell ourselves that the war is over
despite knowing that there's no 'the war' 
and that it's never over
much knowledge we have tumbled through
pillar to pillar, ash to ash - imperious, ecstatic
we have seen and heard it all 
and we have felt it all
but from a high roof
the world is a whiff of orange 
a little child plucks it from the shores
and gives her voice to the waves in stead
you can call her Komal Gandhar
you can call her Philomela 
or you can not call her anything at all
and see her eating oranges
and feel like Lorca does from his open window

from a high roof
stars die and fall, 
and some shoot in happy rage,
towards all wombs 
and towards all graves
and towards all pyres
and towards all city-snakes that slither their way
towards their bitches
and some don't shoot at all
and go catching those mad butterflies in the brain
or steal the thunder of Heruk to make a garden of love in stead

ergo, goblins of the world, unite
you have nothing to lose, not even love,
and winning has never really mattered in any case.

1 comment:

Soumi said...

Winning has never really mattered, true.