I am folding a hat from the glass of my window.
I nail the smoke of my pipe to the wall.
I breastfeed the asphalt.
I hide the flames of the bonfire under my underwear.
I wrap carefully my last night's dream into a cloud. Big package tough.
I cry under water.
4 comments:
what is this, balint? is it something you've written? or who wrote it? what is the context?
It is by me. It's difficult to give explanation to this text, which wouldn't kill it; because it is written in this enigmatic way because I am not able to express it with words which are logical, which we use in communication.
Maybe it is exactly about this: that I am not able to express some things, which would be good to speak about though. This is the loss of language.
When I first read this I thought, hm, that was strange but good. I didn't realize it was a POEM! I had forgot that you didn't only write notes for theater plays, but you could as well as nobody write a beautiful poem!
Thank you for a beautiful poem, Balint. Hope you send me some more.
I have written one recently, but it's in Norwegian. Maybe I'll translate it into English and send it to you. Would you like that?
Yes, I would love to read it. Once You read one of your poems in the dining room of the school. There was something about the author spreading his wings as a butterfly. I always wanted to read that one again, but never had the chance.
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