You live in your own inner city, which you bought in a silent auction. You were again unable to cancel your debts. Under your blackening eyelids you try to feel certain things. Without noticing your withdrawal from self, you leave for distant parts by using your ropes of thought like a ski-lift. Your shudders increase as you touch the numberless elements. In your screams at the moment when you feel the jolts from the echoes of your words crossing the threshold of your thought, you send birds fleeing before you. As you breathe, your roses wither. In your moments of madness, crystals fall from your roof. As your field of thought shrinks, your city expands. You exhaust yourself from running down the streets and avenues. As the lamps of your voltage machines alight upon your nights, your humans robotize themselves. The toads in your dirty waters frighten even the crocodiles. Your inner journey makes you grow older. Your internal cries amplify themselves. You manifest difficulties with forty paws. The auxiliary cells of your laboratories do not give you the opportunity to live any pleasurable moments. While the fear indicator inside you slackens you through and through, you have not even the possibility of speaking. With each movement of the clock, the seasons rip themselves out of your heart. Your solitude traverses your spirit without cease. by Ãœzeyir Lokman É¡AYCI Mantes la Ville - 22.09.2002 Traduit par by Yakup YURT en français French free verse translated into English free verse by F.J. Bergmann - 16.02.2003
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World
30 Apr 2004
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