THE GATE

Excerpt XLI

They are all so irresponsible, he said, so inexplicable

not any pretense for prayer, for excuse. Other things

half done, left over, from the first moment

recommenced;

left behind again half done, miserable with no image

of the final version in the lighted depth; where’s

the solution?

Warped boots discarded behind the fence wall,

mountains of rotten hair, and a wild dandelion

here and there.

Forget of yesterday, and tomorrow — thought,

expectation, nothing;

you wash your hands with green soap, the stigma

of death, your death, isn’t washed off; The morning

newspapers full of bullet holes, same with the afternoon

papers. Through these holes you can see the black river

flowing next to the red river; you don’t see their beginning,

their mouths; sometimes a whole tree with its roots floats

on them or a corpse, a bottle, two hats; an old velvet sofa

with three persons wearing masks — they smoke their

cigars; they keep silent;

a mattress made of cork and on it five keys and a mirror —

they float

on the first, the second river: a wooden statue, face

down, his visible, red colour behinds; the red colour

predominates in a few places, it gleams, blinds you;

gun shots faintly heard; they miss their target;

the body.

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