Franz Krauspenhaar |
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poems
SHORT
BREVE
trans. Giovanni Agnoloni
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Franz
Krauspenhaar |
If you start panting while
you’re trying to tie your
shoelaces
it’s time to smoke lilies at
a grey grandpa’s birthday
party
you can still find him on
the University directory,
where they still have
shameless grandpas,
celebrating birthdays with
cakes and candles.
They suggested you should
lose some hectograms
but they meant kilos: that
person was really
kind. But, indeed, today
you’ve got scared
you’ve seen air whistling
away through invisible
windows, sucking up
remote summers, with lips of
ancient girls pronouncing
your name with the
sweetness of a star-dream.
Between nostalgic dreams and
the speechless freeze of a
panic attack
you stood among the flowered
columns and flowers in the
buttonhole of
a miraculous dawn, reddening
your chest, as if you were a
saint.
Eternally suspended on
boards of fear and affected
laughters
you walk in the evening,
breath with your gestures,
tear words out of the street
you say stop once more, I’ll
quit smoking, I feel bad, I’ll
take care of my health.
And now, yes, you’re
smoking, ‘cause life is
short
of course, and you’re not so
wrong, and you feel a shiver
of guilt
along the myocardium. But
you stand it
as fiercely as you can, it’s
a strong temptation
but your breath doesn’t
allow you more.
Your life is a wild run
before nighttime comes.
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