i threw myself into politics
then had to get home.
i ran to the train.
i'm sat. book open.
she's sat opposite,
also with a book.
how visions of the future blossom from aleatory situations!
what virtual constellations reveal themselves in these celestial scope revolutions of ideas!
how all the categories are shook!
some blokes are sat near in a four seater,
three of them i think, i dare not look. (why are they always in packs?)
they're complaining about the football game
i didn't know had been played in the city we're leaving,
and extolling how they've been drinking since this morning
(it's almost 8PM now)
and they're rather quite loud.
one of them says everyone is reading Harry Potter.
another says "******* is it Harry Potter."
"it's like a library in here." "i don't read."
they start to talk about ****** foreigners and ******* birds.
"that one behind you is alright, ey, ey."
they're talking about her.
i, all the while: an immigrant's son, a cowardly statue
whose basic elements had been rendered into fury.
i try to tell myself:
these are my working class brothers, my fellow sufferers,
a picture of people i'm fighting for...
it's even for people like them that mothers teach us how to love...
but inescapable is the instinct that they are a lost cause
and that liberating oppressors would be counter-productive.
seeing as i am being cynical:
i, for all my principles and sense of duty,
i who has not read one page since i sat,
my fantasies are just as possessive
even if they are dressed up in metaphysics;
a sordid, crumbling, self-corroding man through and through.
at least my family in the east and spain and greece and elsewhere is still beautiful.
we arrive at our stop. an empty freedom.
the blokes are first to get up. i try to be in time with her;
our eyes meet and she gives a smile i'll remember,
but i didn't really manage to return anything at all.
another lost future i began to fall for;
perhaps i lack the strength to prevent these premature autumns...
well, my silence in the field says it all.