. . . and I was counting the teeth on the postage stamps,
I was saying, “Thanks be to God,” “Merry Christmas,”
I was feeling normal.
And yet my thirty years
were few more than theirs.
But it doesn’t matter, now I return to work.
They were singing the messiness of their dreams,
the ingrates of French affluence,
and they weren’t giving me the idea
of denouncing men at the balcony
of one single May, of one single country.
And I have a face worn by good sense,
I repeat “Let’s not have ill feelings for each other,”
and I don’t feel normal.
And I surprise myself still
to measure myself against them,
and now it’s late, and now I return to work.
They risked it on the streets, and for a man
it just takes one sense to endure,
to be able to bleed.
And the sense doesn’t have to be risking,
but maybe no longer wanting to endure.
Who knows what one tries to liberate?
The confidence in one’s own attempts,
pushing away the intruders
from our emotions,
warding them off in time
and before you find yourself alone
with the fear of not returning to work.
Risking liberty street by street,
forgetting the tracks back to home,
I’m worth it,
to arrive to encounter people
without having to pretend I’m innocent.
I force myself to repeat myself with them,
and the more the idea goes over there through the glass,
the more they leave me behind
for their courage together.
I don’t know the rules of the game,
without my fear I trust myself little.
Now I’m late for my friends.
For the hatred I could give it a try on my own,
illuminating with TNT
anyone who has the look and shows only his face,
always agreeable, always more vague.
And the explosion splits, cuts, ransacks
among the guests of a masked ball.
I invited myself
to note the imprint
behind every mask that jumps,
and to have no mercy for my first time.