EMPTY
HOSPITALS
Grey is the twilight
In bleak Aftoktonias Street
And the weathercocks
All point to the grave
Of the nightingale
That was murdered last night
And suffered from hysteria.
There is an earthly
eye
In a remote corner of this
Desolate park that spies
On the steel statues
And the lonely silhouettes
Aimlessly wandering
Along the foggy footpaths
Whistling funereal stanzas.
When I get rid
Of this whiteness
I must buy a gun
To kill the ghost
Which perches in my skull
And accuses me when I am absent.
At midnight, the poor
poets,
With manuscripts in the pockets
Of their threadbare black suits,
Stand frozen stiff
On the marble pavement
Of the harbor
Desperately waiting for the Man
Who comes from nowhere
And who will never arrive
For he does not exist.
When I was a boy
I hated a skinny girl
And would torture her all the while
In the confines of the garden.
After an awful earthquake
That shook the hospital
And the entire town,
The windowpanes of the empty building,
The mirrors & the flowerpots,
All lie smashed to smithereens
And the wind carries
An iron coffin across the horizon.
He stretches his yellow-white
hand
To get the peeled orange from the plate…
But in vain: he can’t reach it.
