Thursday, 24 March 2016

poetic fragments op. 48

The black water tower

Why did I have
A wordless angst feeling
At that time?
Why was I unhappy?
The water tower looked whole black
Against the sun light.

My father used to bring me
To the primary school near my house
On Sundays,
Putting me on the back on his bike,
Before my entrance into it.
The gate remained open unlike today,
I had nothing to do but
Look this way and that.
Because I was so young.

You are a primary school student next year.
My young father was maybe happy,
That’s why his voices were tripping.
You come here every day from next year.

I was looking up to the huge water tower
On the rooftop of the school,
Behind my father,
Having a blue feeling
As if I were forced to leave
The paradise.
The tower

a huge, black, strange, and biting-into thing.

When I think back,
That was the first malice of this world.
A monstrous, rising-up, and all-black thing
Without a smile

This is violence itself.

50 years have just passed
Since that time.
So I’m not afraid of the tower.
Instead, it dwells in my sprit,

And I’m fully a rising-up, and whole-black thing
Without a smile.

My dead father says,
pointing at the tower,
“a crape myrtle in full bloom.”
The flowers start glowing
As in this moment in that moment.

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