Brookly series #1 Brooklyn series #2
1. Woman singing to a man: (plucking flowers for her wedding crown)The BrightI should go now and dress the children with darker tones Or should I dare to dress them all in black or better white? Three red collars of a Spanish taste I’ll lay around their necks And hide the stains and marks of every single strangulation.I go to hide them under a hundred skirts I am wearing only to fit to my hundred shoes, My shoes, my shoes, my sweet and pretty shoes.To be them their mother, but Only like one of those birds, I’ll call them as we use to do in my land With the names of some flowers.And when I’ll hide them dressed up tidily behind Some skirts with flowers bright and coloured The three of them I’ll call Tulip and Tulip and Tulip.And when two lips will turn to red I’ll wonder to myself: “What did you do to my children my love, My love, my love, my sweet and handsome man?â€Â© T. W. 2007
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This is the fortune of manhood.Images and image.Burning the calm fever of love.I press the button.He feels.Fainting upon the obstacle of touching.Nothing I care remains.He took the silence.I took the devotion of a staring fantasy.I've made a comedy of becoming a man next to an animal.
21 years I was in prison. As for me, I can’t cry. I am as hard as the steal. There is a gun at my bedside. My young brother with no eyes. It is quiet. It is dead, grey. I love my sorrow. I work from sorrow. The horse is melancholy. At 8 o’clock there is a lecture on humanitarian ideals. Europe is dying. The hour of grief. Are you there? As if your eyes were from Italian paintings. My girl is still of tender age. She is indeed at this stage. Sir, am I to blame? What would you have if it were not for guns? Our tears are choking in smoke. I am not allowed to love a woman. It is a cruel voice. A soul does not give way. I am not with you. I do not cry with tears. I am always leaving. Bark, hearts! Bark! He is buried. A blind horse. Ljubljana is asleep. And our faces are dead with dreams. His face is bleeding. I have tremendous work on my hands, isn’t that joyful? Civilization lacks a heart. Evacuation of souls. Evening burns like fire. There is a man behind the door. What does he want? Sky blue sea, grey jail, we are all ill. I am a broken arc of a circle. The hour of sorrow is approaching. New mysticism. And the night has fallen again. Oh, dead is my sister. Dead, dead. Oh, my Balkan sister. Grey airplanes. You are not the King. White barricades. Dynamite explodes. To destroy, to destroy, to destroy. Millions are dying, but Europe is lying. Dynamism. Activism. The Balkans. B A B A B AA depression BB action Three lines. Real work. Fernando, the terror of Austria. Revolutions, kings, artists. Shoot, shoot. Operations, revolutions. A little more of the sun. A little more of the wind. Weary we fall.
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