Monday, December 13, 2010


 For God knows what,
 Heavy steps on pebble-strewn grounds,
 The weight of ancient books,
 Agitated fingers moving constantly,
 Eyes darting, dream-like, faraway
 Cold, dark, gray,
 Who understands?
Of pop art and Andy Warhol,
 Neon, bright, blood red lips, peroxide blondes
 More agitation, the pent-up feeling of suppressed hopes,
 Trapped by birth, by communist principles,
 Soul shrieking at the subtle betrayal by best friends
 They laughed, and mocked, sniggered,
 Those wounds, still open, unhealed, unbandaged,
 Thinking of faraway lands, of Spanish tongues,
 Thinking, telling herself to think
 Of the jazz age, an escape
 Tired of the superficial embraces
 In the blue and white worlds
Exhausted by the constant monotony
Hands trembling at the sight of translucent dreams,
The photographs she would never click,
 The films she would never make.
 Nailed by convention, by circumstances,
Hurt by words, said and those left unsaid.
 Who understands
 But the people she finds in history books?
And the music that filters in her window
Or so she imagines,
 Beethoven and Mozart and Tchaikovsky,
 They understood.
 Not the people lying fast asleep in her dorm
 In the early Sunday dawn.
 There were no tears left to shed,
 No explanations to make.
 In a crowded city of skyscrapers-
 Ah! No more people, strangers shall prevail.

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