if you cannot be a poet, be a poem

T.Różewicz "Ocalony"/"The survivor"

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 05:58:02 -0400

I am twenty four years old

I survived

when was lead to the slaughter

These are empty and not ambiguous names

a human and an animal

love and hate

an enemy and a friend

light and darkness

You kill man just like an animal

I saw:

carts of chopped people

who won’t be ever saved.

Notions are just words

virtue and maleficence

beauty and ugliness

bravery and cowardness

Virtue and meleficence weigh the same

I saw:

a man who was one and he was

both virtuous and meleficent

I looked for a teacher, for a master

who gives me back my vision and speach

who once again will name entities and notions

who will separate light from the darkness.

I am twenty four years old

I survived

when was lead to the slaughter.

“Paramecium” by A.Bursa (b.1932, died 1957 in...

Sun, 24 Mar 2013 13:05:53 -0400

“Paramecium” by A.Bursa

(b.1932, died 1957 in Cracow) His poetry was naturalistic and really cynica.

Z.Herbert "Apollo i Marsjasz"/"Apollo and Marsyas"

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 12:43:00 -0400

the proper duel between Apollo

and Marsyas

(perfect pitch vs

enormous range)

takes place just before the evening

when as we all already know

the judges

awarded the god

he is tied tightly to the tree

precisely skinned

Marsyas

screams

before it reaches

his high ears

he relaxes in the shadow of that cry

shivering with repulsion

Apollo cleans his instrument

only on the surface

Maryas’ voice

is monotonous

and consists of only one vowel

in fact

Marsyas

tells

countless treasures

of his body

bold mountais of his liver

white gorges of nourishent

humming woods of the lungs

sweet hills of muscles

joints bile blood and shivers

winter bones wind

over the salt of memories

shivering with repulsion

Apollo cleans his instrument

now to the choirs

joins spinal column

basically the same A

just deeper with a bit of rust

this is the end of endurance

of the god with nerves of plastics

the winner walks away

on the gravel alley

boxtree on each side

he wonders

whether Marsyas’screams

won’t inspire

a new art trend

-let’s say- a defined one

suddenly

on his feet

falls

a petrified nightingale

he turns around

and notices

that the tree, the one Marsyas was tied to

is gray

absolutely

Z.Herbert "U wrót doliny"/"at the valley's gates"

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 11:49:02 -0400

After the rain of stars

on the field of ashes

everyone gathered under the angel’s guard

from the hill that lasted

you could’ve watched

bleating stocks of bipedals

there aren’t many of them

even when you count those who will arrive

from cronicles fairy tales and life of saints

but enough of pondering

we should focus on

the valley’s throat

from which a scream ascends

aftera a swish of explosion

after a swish of silence

this voice like spring of fresh water, beats

this is, they explain us,

mothers screaming when their child is separated

cause it turned out

we’re going to be redeemed individually

guardian angels are ruthless

and it has to be said, their job is hard

she pleads-

hide me in your eye

in your hand in your arms

we were together forever

you can’t leave me right now

when I died and need affection

the elder angel

explains this misunderstanding with a smile

an old lady carries

a cold body of a canary

(all the animals died earlier)

he was so nice- she says, crying

he understood everything

when I was saying-

her voice is lost in the sea of screams

even the lubemrjack

you wouldn’t suspect him of it

an old hunched fellow

presses an axe to his chest

-the whole life she was mine

now she will be mine, too

she’s been feeding me there

she will feed me here

none has the right to

-he says-

I won’t give her away

even those who at first seemed as

without any thoughts followed the orders

walk with their heads lowered in reconcilation

though in squeezed hands they hold

fragments of letters ribbons cut locks

and photographies

that, as they presume naively,

won’t be taken from them

this is how they look

one moment before

the ever lasting division

into those grinding their teets

and those praising the Lord

Z.Herbert "Prometeusz"/"Prometheus"

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 21:41:36 -0400

The old Prometheus writes diaries.

He tries to explain in them place of a hero in the system of necessity,

reconcile contradictory notions of fate and existence.

Flames happily crack in the fireplace,

in the kitchen his wife hustles- she’s an exalted girl

who couldn’t give birth to a son, though she comforts herself

she will go down in history.

Preparations for a dinner attended by the

town’s rector and the pharmacist,

closest friend of Prometheus.

Fire in the fireplace,

on the wall a stuffed eagle and letter of thanks from a tyrant from Caucasus

who thanks to Prometheus’ invention

was able to burn down a rebellious city.

Prometheus laughs silently.

Now it’s the only way

he shows disagreeent with the world.

Z.Herbert "Kaligula"/"Caligula"

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 21:20:00 -0400

While reading older cronicles, poems and bios, Mr Cogito experients

feeling of physical presence of people who died long ago

Says Caligula:

from all the Rome’s citizens

there was only one I loved

Incitatus- a horse

when he entered senate

a spotless toga on his fur

shone immaculatedly among the cowardly murderers covered in purple

Incitatus was full of merits

never spoke

a stoic’s nature

I think he read the philosophers at night at the stables

I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

but his noble anatomy opposed this idea

he indifferently accepted consul’s office

he ruled in the best way

meaning he didn’t rule at all

I couldn’t persuade him into continous love affair

with my lovely wife, Caesonia

so the centaur line of ceasars wasn’t born

this is why Rome had fallen

I decided to designate him as a god

though at the nine day before the February calends

Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and other fools interrupted these godly intentions

he calmly accepted my death as a fact

they threw him out the palace and banished

he bore this blow with dignity

he died childless

stabbed by a harsh butcher from a town called Anzio

Tacitus remains silent

about the posthumous lot of his meat

Z.Herbert "Deszcz"."rain"

Fri, 22 Mar 2013 20:44:00 -0400

RAIN

When my older brother

came back from the war

he wore a silver star on his forehead

and under the star

nothing

a fragment of a bomshell

hit him at Verdun

or Grunwald

(he can’t exactly remember)

he talked much

in many languages

though the one he liked the most

was the language of the history

until breathless moments

he raised fallen comrades from the ground

his friends- Rolland Feliksiak Hannibal

he cried

that this is the last crusade

that soon Carthage will fall

and then between sobs he confessed

that Napoleon doesn’t like him

we watched

as he paled

senses lost to him

he slowly turned into statue

into musical shells of ears

spread stony forest

skin of his face

was fastened

with two blind and dry

buttons of his eyes

the only thing left was the

sense of touch

and what stories

he told with his hands

in the right one he had romances

in the left memories of a soldier

they took my brother

and removed him outside of a city

he comes back every fall

thin and silent

he doesn’t want to go inside

knocks on my window so I go out

we walk on the streets

and he tells me

tall stories

touching the face

with blind fingers of tears

Z.Herbert "Przesłuchanie anioła"/ Angel's interrogation

Sat, 16 Mar 2013 01:18:04 -0400

Zbigniew Herbert

Angel’s interrogation

When he stands before them

in the shadow of suspicion

he is still weaved

from the matter of light

eons of his hair

are pinned into

a curl of innocence

after the first question

his cheeks fill with blood

tools and interrogation

distribute the blood

with iron with cane

with fire so hot

they define the border

of his body

blows on his back

strenghten his spine

between the cloud and a puddle

after few nights

their work is done

angel’s throat

is full of wet agreement

and how beautiful is this moment

when he falls onto his knees

embodiment of guild

saturated with meaning

his tongue falters

between knocked out teeth

and the confession

they hang him his head to the floor

from angel’s hair

drops of wax drip down

creating on the ground

a simple prophecy

First, have a look at WWII: Poland was attacked by Hitler, and whole coutry tried to fight them off, our capitol, my city, burned to the ground(and when i say to the ground i mean it) and people were fighting till the last blood. Even though it meant almost absolutely destroying the city they didnt want to give up. And then the USRR “helped” us, walking into the ruins of Warsaw and freeing none really, but instead they took control of Poland. And after the war, all the brave people who fought for Poland to free it from Nazis and who thought that maybe perhaps POLAND DESERVES TO BE ON ITS OWN INStEAD OF GOING FROM UNDER NAZI OCCUPATION TO UNDER RUSSIAN OCCUPATION were being interrogated by Polish, who ruled under Russians, and those heroes were considered traitors. They were tortured and interrogated till they confessed things that weren’t true.

Their nails were being pulled out, testicles crushed, fingers broken with drawers, heads smashed /without visible signs for outside world/ with books about lenin, smashed so hard people get concussion. There were “washing machines” where the tormenters threw water on a person standing in a wall until they either confessed or drow. Former nurses from the WWII underground anti-nazi movement were raped and shot at the back of their heads.

so yeah. now you probably have more idea what this poem is about. And it’s not only about Poland, cause almost every country has histories like that. Maybe not always that modern, thank god

T.Pióro "HWDP/ T.Pióro 'Fuck the police'

Wed, 23 May 2012 13:26:36 -0400

Fuck the police

“Gentleman, we have a guitar and all the lyrics

Perfect circumstances and the supremacy of

Ars longa vita brevis….

This is the stairs that will lead us to heaven

And down the pipeline full of Russian champagne

We will float to Alpes, like on that one’s New Year’s Eve”

He said and added “If they’re gonna drink

they have to pay”

So I drank to those who do porridge

Scab of foam fizzed and disappeared

There was no weave practically

There were no ladies actually

There was guitar and lyrics

And an ambiguous demand

“Your IDs, please”

You don’t photograph the pipeline.

Antiterrorists from Gdańsk watch over us.

But the night is ours and ours are the walls

Dishabilled stars

Fire and knife eaters

And whores thin as razor blades

They fall from the sky dropping on the wet sand

Their numbers

Made us speechless

and impeccable manners

turned into a joke

Too fast, as for me, and for always.

For sure? No, for ever.

original:

HWDP

„Panowie, mamy gitarę i wszystkie teksty
okoliczności piękne oraz auspicje
ars longa vita brevis …;.
Tymi schodami pójdziemy do nieba
i rurociągiem pełnym ruskiego szampana
spłyniemy w Alpy, jak raz na Sylwestra”
powiedział i dodał, „Jak chcą pić, niech płacą”.
Więc wylałem miarkę za tych, co garują
strup piany na piasku wzdął się i zniknął
fali praktycznie nie było
pań faktycznie nie było
była gitara i śpiewnik
i dwuznaczne żądanie:
„Proszę państwa dowody”.
Rurociągowi nie robi się zdjęć.
Gdańscy antyterroryści mają nas w swojej opiece.

Ale noc jest nasza i nasze są mury
gdy rozchełstane gwiazdy estrady
połykacze noży i ognia
i kurwy chude jak żyletki
spadają nam z nieba, roniąc mokry piach -

zamurowało nas od ich numerów
i nienaganne maniery obróciły się w żart
za szybko, jak na mój gust, i na zawsze.
Na pewno? Nie, na zawsze.

Z.Herbert 'Do Marku Aurelego' /Z. Herbert "To Marcus Aurelius"

Wed, 09 May 2012 14:22:00 -0400

To Marcus Aurelius

To Marcus Aurelius

Goodnight dear Marcus, shut off the lamp

And close your book

Above your head there’s a bunch of stars

It’s sky that speaks in an unknown tongue

it’s the barbarian cry of threatened

the ones your Latin barely knows

it’s fear so ancient the fear so dark

about a fragile human land it starts

to beat and will win Do you hear the hum

it’s the high tide Your letters will be surged

by the unstoppable elements’ move

until the four walls of the world fall down

what’s left for us- to tremble on the wind

and blow the ashes huff to stir up the ether

bite the fingers to look for empty words

and drag along the shadows of the beaten

So better Marcus stop being calm

And through the darkness extend your hand

Let it tremble when it strikes the five senses

Like a blind universe playing lir

Universe will betray us so will astronomy

Account of stars and wisdom of grass

And your grandeur is way too great

And oh, my hopeless Mark, just cry

originalDo Marka Aurelego

Dobranoc Marku lampę zgaś

i zamknij książkę

Już nad głową wznosi się srebrne larum gwiazd

to niebo mówi obcą mową

to barbarzyński okrzyk trwogi

którego nie zna twa łacina

to lęk odwieczny ciemny lęk

o kruchy ludzki ląd zaczyna

bić I zwycięży Słyszysz szum

to przypływ Zburzy twe litery

żywiołów niewstrzymany nurt

aż runą świata ściany cztery

cóż nam - na wietrze drżeć

i znów w popioły chuchać mącić eter

gryźć palce szukać próżnych słów

i wlec za sobą cień poległych

więc lepiej Marku spokój zdejm

i ponad ciemność podaj rękę

niech drży gdy bije w zmysłów pięć

jak w wątłą lirę ślepy wszechświat

zdradzi nas wszechświat astronomia

rachunek gwiazd i mądrość traw

i twoja wielkość zbyt ogromna

i mój bezradny Marku płacz

a.osiecka jeżeli gdzieś jest niebo/if there is any heaven

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 21:15:14 -0400

If there’s any heaven

I didn’t know that everything

Everything that ever mattered

Is so close.

Didn’t know that in the winter

we’ll dance

around the garden.

Couldn’t know that our hands

From that dance

Like from wreath

Can’t untangle.

Didn’t know that our hearts

Would now ever

And forever

Be together.

Didn’t know that one can

Go on like that

With no air.

Didn’t know that me, too, would be Eve

Won’t believe, never wait,

Couldn’t sense

In deep dream

That if there is any heaven

It’s right here.

Couldn’t know that our hearts would

Grow so cold.

I believed that if you die I fade too

Couldn’t know that sometimes people wake to

Be like ships, thoroughly different, though

The harbor is the same.

I didn’t know that one can

Go on like that

With no air.

Couldn’t know that words once spoken

never last till end.

Didn’t wait, never suffered, couldn’t sense

In deep dreams

That if there is any hell

It’s right here.

original

Jeżeli gdzieś jest niebo

Nie wiedziałam, że tak blisko
jest to wszystko,
to wszystko, o co chodzi…
Nie wiedziałam, że tej zimy
zatańczymy,
zatańczymy jak w ogrodzie…
Nie wiedziałam, że się ręce
z tego tańca
jak z wieńca
nie rozplaczą,
nie wiedziałam, że się serca
nigdy więcej,
nigdy więcej nie rozłączą,
nie wiedziałam, że to można - tak bez tchu…
nie wiedziałam, że ja także będę Ewą,
nie wierzyłam, nie czekałam, nie przeczułam
                                                w głębi snu,
że jeżeli gdzieś jest niebo,
to tu, to tu.

Nie wiedziałam, że się serca tak ostudzą,
uwierzyłam, że umiera się parami,
nie wiedziałam, że się ludzie różnie budzą
jak okręty, nie te same, choć w tej samej wciąż
                                                 przystani…

Nie wiedziałam, że to można - tak bez tchu…
Nie wiedziałam, że odfrunie, co się rzekło,
nie czekałam, nie cierpiałam, nie przeczułam
                                                 w głębi snu,
że jeżeli gdzieś jest piekło,

To tu.

"She wants to be king, she wants to be queen; “Half Josephine, half Napoleon, dear,” Penelope,..."

Wed, 14 Mar 2012 13:51:21 -0400

“She wants to be king, she wants to be queen; “Half Josephine, half Napoleon, dear,” Penelope, Odysseus, or Kora, or Hades, or God, or nothing, or no one. More than the sum of her jagged, pretty parts.”

- She Told Him A Story Once

Pretty much, if I were to ever write a fem!Moriarty, I would want her to have this sort of mind set. An amazing one-shot that everyone should read.

Untitled

(via sassyfries)

Z. Herbert "Tren Fortynbrasa"/"An Elegy of Fortinbras"

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 16:00:45 -0500

Elegy of Fortinbras

Now that we are finally alone we can talk, dear prince, man to man

And thought you lie here on the stairs seeing as much as a dead ant

Nothing but a black sun with its rays all broken

I could’ve never think of your hands without a single smile

And now as your hands rest on the marble like some fallen nests

They are vulnerable they always been This is what the End means

Your hands lie apart Sword lies apart Apart lies your head

And soldier’s feet in soft velvet slippers.

You shall have soldier’s funeral thought you’ve never been a soldier

But this is the only ritual I’m quite familiar with

No candles no dirges only roaring and the raging fire

Crepe dragged through the cobblestone helmets shouts and artillery

Drums drums there is no other way how it could’ve been better

This is how I shall seize the power

One has to grab the people by their throats and shake them a little.

One or other way you were always destined to die, dear Hamlet

You believed in crystal notions not the human clay

You lived as in agony your life was but a dream

Always hungry for something you devored the air then threw it up immidately

You couldn’t do a thing even when it came to breathing.

And now you are at peace my Hamlet you did what you were to do

And you’re at peace Though the rest is not silence but it’s mine

You chose the easer part just a spectacular stab

Your hero’s death is nothing compared to my lifelong awaiting

With a cold orb in hand and a crown on head

Watching all the people and the clock’s slow ticking

Adieu my prince, I’m to go back to the project

On sewage as well as new laws on whores and beggars

Oh, and I am to upgrade the prison system

Because, as you kindly noticed, Denmark is a prison.

Farewell, my Hamlet I should leave to attend my business. This night

A new star shall be born its name Hamlet. We will never meet

Because what will be left after me is no subject for a great tragedy.

We are not to meet we are not to say goodbye we live on separated isles

And this water between us, those words, what can they do, what can they do, my prince.

This is one of my favorite poems ever, of my definitely favorite polish poet, Zbigniew Herbert. The theme of this poem is just amazing- Herbert has this incredible way of seeing various characters, he remarks on things no one has before. One day I will translate his poetic prose on Prometheus or Minotaur, because they are flawless. I love how he writes Fortibras here- we have comparison between idealistic Hamlet and soldier Fortinbras. Hamlet died but it doesn’t mean his life was worse or harder. Often those, who are left to live, suffer. It reminds me of all the martyrial sacrifices thourough the polish history, where often the best of the best died fighting for freedom, died fighting at wars, they were heroes, of course; but dying for a cause isn’t everything, because people who are left and who have to build everything from the beginning are also strong; it’s Fortibras taht has to clean all the mess Hamlet and the whole situation caused. He is to stay alive, longlife awaiting. He will do far more things than Hamlet, but he’d be forgotten, as his life is not that spectacular. Although he is the king now, he is the ordinary one. Not for him tragedies, no stars will be named after him.

original

Tren Fortynbrasa

Dla M.C.

Teraz kiedy zostaliśmy sami możemy porozmawiać książę jak mężczyzna z mężczyzną

chociaż leżysz na schodach i widzisz tyle co martwa mrówka

to znaczy czarne słońce o złamanych promieniach

Nigdy nie mogłem myśleć o twoich dłoniach bez uśmiechu

i teraz kiedy leżą na kamieniu jak strącone gniazda

są tak samo bezbronne jak przedtem To jest właśnie koniec

Ręce leżą osobno Szpada leży osobno Osobno głowa

I nogi rycerza w miękkich pantoflach

Pogrzeb mieć będziesz żołnierski chociaż nie byłeś żołnierzem

jest to jedyny rytuał na jakim trochę się znam

Nie będzie gromnic i śpiewu będą lonty i huk

kir wleczony po bruku hełmy podkute buty konie artyleryjskie

werbel werbel wiem nic pięknego

to będą moje manewry przed objęciem władzy

trzeba wziąć miasto za gardło i wstrząsnąć nim trochę

Tak czy owak musiałeś zginąć Hamlecie nie byłeś do życia

wierzyłeś w kryształowe pojęcia a nie glinę ludzką

żyłeś ciągłymi skurczami jak we śnie łowiłeś chimery

łapczywie gryzłeś powietrze i natychmiast wymiotowałeś

nie umiałeś żadnej ludzkiej rzeczy nawet oddychać nie umiałeś

Teraz masz spokój Hamlecie zrobiłeś co do ciebie należało

i masz spokój Reszta nie jest milczeniem ale należy do mnie

wybrałeś część łatwiejszą efektywny sztych

lecz czymże jest śmierć bohaterska wobec wiecznego czuwania

z zimnym jabłkiem w dłoni na wysokim krześle

z widokiem na mrowisko i tarczę zegara

Żegnaj książę czeka na mnie projekt kanalizacji

i dekret w sprawie prostytutek i żebraków

muszę także obmyślić lepszy system więzień

gdyż jak zauważyłeś słusznie Dania jest więzieniem

Odchodzę do moich spraw Dziś w nocy urodzi się

Gwiazda Hamlet Nigdy się nie spotkamy

To co po mnie zostanie nie będzie przedmiotem tragedii

Ani nam witać się ani żegnać żyjemy na archipelagach

A ta woda te słowa cóż mogą cóż mogą książę

E.Lipska "Podczas Świąt"/During the Christmas time

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 14:16:05 -0500

During the Christmas time

During the Christmas time

You can finally switch the phone off.

When the God is born

The guy next-door would knock.

I watch Casablanca

With the usual hunger

For digression.

Accompanied by the solitude

I drink sweet milk served with honey.

My sixth finger

Taps on the keyboard.

I will write no more.

The rest of the evening

Is silence.

original:

Podczas Świąt

Podczas świąt można wreszcie

wyłączyć telefon.

Jeżeli urodzi się Bóg

zapuka sąsiadka.

Oglądam Casablankę

z takim samym jak zawsze

apetytem na dygresję.

Zabawiam się samotnością.

Do tego gorące mleko z miodem.

Mój szósty palec u ręki

wystukuje litery.

Nie napiszę nic więcej.

Dalszy ciąg wieczoru

jest nietykalny.

E.Lipska "Nikt"/Nobody

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 13:52:28 -0500

Nobody

I agree on this view

although it does exist no longer.

The father holds a violin in his hand

the children are starving for a sweet sound.

Clumsy wind caresses

roses’ soft petals.

And then comes the war. We lose each other

in a hurried crowd.

Words disappear hidden behind

the scared sentences.

An empty room

fixed in the darkness

of our old houses.

Please, leave the message-

this is nobody speaking.

polish original:

Nikt

Zgadzam się na ten krajobraz

który nie istnieje.

Ojciec trzyma w ręce skrzypce.

Dzieci oblizują dźwięk.

Przeciąg

potrąca płatki róż.

Potem wojna. Tracimy się z oczu.

Całymi zdaniami ukrywają się słowa.

Pusty pokój

zaparkowany w mroku

kamienicy.

Proszę zostawić wiadomość

mówi nikt.

E. Lipska "Ruch"/"Movement"

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 13:47:40 -0500

Movement

I would have never guessed

the bird would call me

and say

let’s fly all over the world.

And though I have no wings

And though it has no face

We read each other

from the greatest book on creation.

polish original:

Ruch

Nie przypuszczałam

że zadzwoni do mnie ptak

i powie

że fruwamy razem na tym świecie.

I chociaż ja bez skrzydeł

a on bez ludzkiej twarzy

czytamy wspólnie ruch.

Lekturę wszechświata.

E.Lipska's "Jesień"/ The fall

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 04:41:00 -0500

Fall

We try to portray the autumn.

Step by step. Leaf by leaf.

Counting all the colors.

There’s a tormented haze on the cross.

And your voice drizzling softly.

There is a topic undiscovered around us.

Like a sad gray murmur of the wind’s chant.

So in love, we cook a simple meal

In the rusty morning of a red fall.

And then

the same, exact moment rages

all over again

as we

catch the cold ginger autumn

red-handed.

polish original:

Jesień

Zabieramy się do opisu jesieni.

Pedantycznie. Liść po liściu.

Kolor po kolorze.

Męka mgły na krzyżu.

Mży twój głos do mnie.

Plącze się wokół nas temat.

Pożółkły szelest melodii.

Zakochani od rudego poranka

gotujemy makaron.

I znowu

Wrze

ta sama chwila

kiedy

przyłapywaliśmy zimną jesień

na gorącym uczynku.

The cat in an empty flat / on W.Szymborska "Kot w pustym mieszkaniu"/

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 02:19:00 -0500

Original / Kot w pustym mieszkaniu by W. Szymborska/

The cat in an empty flat

You can’t just die on your cat.

He certainly would feel terribly confused

because what he is to do within an empty flat.

Purring and chasing isn’t quite the same

the furniture isn’t as interesting

Nothing really changes

yet everything is different.

And the lamp doesn’t shine as bright

And the steps on the stairs not familiar

And his bowl is full; but not quite

And the touch on his fur not that pleasant.

He should curl in a ball

And just wait

But something is tangled in here

And it’s not that ball of strings you have left

That for a change is untied,

he took care of it

during the first lonely hours.

He went through all the usual places

Even the darkest and dusty

In the most distant corners

Hunting and looking for something.

But it’s hard to find anything

When you don’t even know what you’re hoping for.

So he sleeps. And fidgets. And waits.

Because what is to do when one’s so alone.

Can you be back, just come.

You can appear at the door, so belated

He will show you, for sure

that it’s outrageous of you to behave that way

He will step, rather furious; his soft paws

On the floor, lazy and slow and so careless

‘Cause he never cared much for you

If you glowed and smiled or if you sobbed.

He would glare and ignore you

He would show you his disgust; and claws.

He would show you that he doesn’t notice you.

But for this, you should quickly come home.