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with outdated globes in their pockets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.