By | 2 February 2001

the white translation.
the last time that floor was crossed
rain was spilt on plain paper diaries.
From the bed I watched your bare feet.

open the window I said and you left
the scene change, just like a parachute
In the square all those stories below
there was protest about form.
Red stripes plus spheres, pyramids
in amongst these you chose a way

I watched, you had a black jacket on
flack black and bullet proof, authorities
with outdated globes in their pockets
slogans which you ignored.

through a door I’d heard about.
It kept a silent pact to close hard
not even a squeak, only from me
I really wish I had my gun back
or my boots I really loved my boots
would have kicked that door in
as if it were a sheet of paper.

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