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

blind

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.