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

When fog comes into the sheep barn

England whispers in my ear there is no rain.

There are just the sun’s tears, like spindrifts over the umbrellas.

The city is at my feet all day long, and I watch folk through the window.

It is just fast walkers when sky is falling down,

It is just dancers in the rain each time they want to forget that there is no lullaby by night,

When they come back home,

When they wear their worn dreams.

Sometimes, sunlight appears and it is like a party in their minds. There is nothing but their

arms circling life, circling the whole day, circling their youth as if it were their last present.

I guess I love this clear white crowded light.

There is a sound in that country, a whistle, which tells me that it’s not an island’s lyrics but that everything abroad is a kind of Island whose lies nobody here can understand.

I lay down on my bed, I’m surprised to think as they do.

Maybe I’ll have spindrifts over my umbrella.

Birmingham, 17/10/2007

Going back to the stars