|
I am watching
an old man who writes
and hauls
and hauls
and
hauls himself
to others who also write
and want to be immortal.
With their monastic lives
they worship the worm:
a kiss
for the big ass
that
is on high,
a contempt
for all of those
who
move below.
One say he bottled up
a little ambassador
with a great title,
also a consul
less wise.
Everyone sees him
in the way I see him:
yet on the table they allow complicity
and camouflage the green worm.
No one
no one
no
one
burns
burns
burns
like Nazim Hikmet
and Kerem.
I go out walking
with these verses
everywhere
and only the worm knows
why it writhes
when
it hears my steps. |
