the question remains a question
A paradox, an enigma.
Despair embodied with human curves
That arouses my deepest and most concealed fears
Like the heightened sensualities of a pilgrim
Or the hunger of a pagan god.
Once again, where is Mecca? or Jerusalem?
Perhaps Eden is in a box?
Or within the ****** of a battered woman
How about Atlantis?
Is it like me? Between 4 walls?
After all, we are left to confess and write
Our darkest secrets, our most inhumane crimes in a wall
In blood or in phlegm, or perhaps *****,
Is just a matter of preferences.
Sartre is on the phone,
Looking for someone who’s never home
Whether he knows or not we’ll never know
But my finger touches his dance partner.
Dance away like numbers
Minus the precision or the count
Learning tango simply costs too much
and like Sartre, I'm poor, or maybe less
So he went on dancing like that,
With no measure nor count
Free like a *******, like me
Nervous yet spontaneous.
Another silence,
But unlike before it’s even more silent
Making it even more unspeakable, undesirable
And now it demands the impossible;
To be called by its name, by its urgency!
But the words, those little empty words
Withers away like leaves or skin kissed by fire
So we are left away with no device
To break the silence or to speak out its name
The trigger, the unmoving dance partner
Went down to its cold alloyed knees;
Proposing marriage with my finger
She knows the answer,
A way to speak the unspeakable name
Loud and clear, with a bang
That everyone will surely hear.
Or do we already know that?