It’s already past midnight
but the sun has never been late.
Waiting at the end of the street
the sun will catch a yellow tram and come
meet us in a café just opening its doors.
The yellow trams
of this city are its blood,
running day and night inside a beautiful body
that has passed through pain
through murderous nightmares.
History is a series of seizures.
If lucky we live in the meantime,
in the peaceful spells.
Our task is heavy and hopeless,
trying to wipe out all this madness
while finding food
and searching for happiness
in the yard of our homes like chickens
or up in the trees like crows.
But right now, embracing each other in the dark
bravely and nervously
joyfully and guiltily
we can only make this private history together,
a history that ends with the little death
when you scream the scream of someone decapitated
and fall into the black hole of ecstasy.
