You watch the deeds of the collapsed
without learning anything about the inimitable.
The means will never end,
everyone has their methods
for every word, every imitation of a deed.
Will you forgive the mirage, when it vanishes?
Will you admit that you don’t make mistakes,
they just come from the desert in due time.
At midday, you examine a shadow of a little human being.
It slanders you behind your back.
Tell the mass murderer in you that you can identify her.
Tell her what you can, tell her that she is your prisoner,
she has been sentenced to life imprisonment, in a cage inside you.
Turn your back against the wall
of undulating weeping,
those sentenced to death will be immortalised against it,
it keeps changing its shape like the night sky,
or your humaneness.
Rather than revolve and act,
or spend your energy on wearing out
the rack wheels, others’ and your own –
rather than understand, or admire misery
where you can’t get further than square one,
better than the way you scare yourself out of your wits,
and follow the course of events,
your breathing and sighs will follow
the archives, where the concentric circles of facts spread
on the water’s surface, inside a tree, on parchment.
She was born, she grew, she suffered, she killed.
The oil of doubt is sneaking about in the archives
destroying the facts on paper.
A shy girl is being engraved on your material
like a silent village
until you can’t hear the knocking anymore.