Unbridgeable

He noticed that his face was contorted by their hurrahs.

Was it him? Did he exist once? So unsuspecting, so young?

A cheap mirror made of glass covered the wavy reflections,

the crooked shapes with its mercury. Of course, the young,

beautiful and healthy don’t feel the urge to look at themselves

        in the mirror,

to notice its distortions, their distortions; they prefer hurrahs,

they like to call his name rhythmically. Their voices fell on him

like big shovels of dirt covering him, choking him and

he couldn’t raise a single hand to salute them, to stop them.

The distance was longer-stronger than belief than truth. Outside,

         in the street,

the workers carried wide metal rings from old barrels.

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