The widow's laughter

Leaves are falling all over the land and the red dark walls of Birmingham cry autumn has come. The weak sun doesn’t appear but awakes from Dawn to death,

when clocks show it is six,

when nobody is laid to sleep.

I would confess my fears if there was a sudden noise, a breath of fury, but everything is quiet, everything seems to be a letter written by a sleeper. Therefore I think about the wind snuggled up against my hands.

Everything is but a night dream. Thoughts only night walkers could feel when they slip on the pavement,

and fly for one second.

I know there is no fear actually, there are no walls raised up in front of my forehead, there are just tortured ways which pass across the hills, and whistle that stars are going to vanish one more time.

Those ways I can’t feel because of the cold circling my neck

and pretending to be a scarf.

The canal’s streams remind me that the time is running away,
and that my shoulders can’t be swallowed by a strong deep chill of already cried memories.

The lights, reflected from the water, are dancing upon the bricks like a forgotten banquet upon a demand of absolution.

It reminds me the Ocean,

the waves’ voices mixed to laughter,

the parties I’ve never been to,

the old widow crying because of joy on the fair’s ground.

Now, I’m sure it is not an exile but a bracket.

Birmingham, 28th of October. 2007