Sun writing her eyes on walls
scribbling poems on my cheeck
girl's face hesitatingly
foreseeing the day's course
houses in the stolid air
candles of our futile lives
shining on the sodden grass
and I don't think I'm here
fathers tyrannize their homes
I hear the mothers sighing
tastes can never differ there
the daughters hate at night
Sun divides herself to us
white walls wash themselves like cats
and while the artist's sleeping
the trees paint self-portraits
the birds vote constitutions
to feed the starving men
the happy few that slept through
the panic of their lives
fathers beat their daughters up
and pity themselves at night
the daughters die this strange live death
that leaves them ever cold.
Summer 1968. Irene met de groene ogen die leken te ademen. Dit gaat wel degelijk over misbruik.
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