Fugitive camp
Vraag mij niet van waar dit vandaan komt. Maar daarjuist nam ik pen en papier, en rolde dit er zomaar eventjes uit.
A man had lost all hope and plans
although he couldn’t have seen
what lied beneath stained plastic sheet.
And he had found his desperate self
now living in a raggid canvas tent
fled from all but lice and flee.
Stuck in a place where he and his family
more then likely would never meet.
So in early october evening cold
shivering next to a petty oil lamp
he listened to dampened moans.
Distant cries for life and bread
filling a stainless sky with death.
Closing his eyes he staggered through his mind
avoiding ghosts of grotesque size and kind,
and followed Virgils’ silent whispers,
yet found no solace in troubled sleep.
Because haunting in his head repeats
the slideshow of bodies lying in the streets
covered with nothing more
but dark stained plastic sheets.
Ja, met mij gaat alles ok. ik schrijf alleen nog altijd veel te weinig.
