In this forsaken village
          of unnamed identity
  one lonely man,
        a clown
            with a pair of drums
         stands right in the midst of nothingness
       staring at something only he can see,
     gazing at it with the blindest of devotions.
     And the drummer kept on drowning in
          those dreams that others didn’t dare to dive in.
     And as clear as the sun rises every morning,
           the river kept on flowing earnestly,
         even though it bathed no one,
                 not a soul,
             that gave one dime about this unmistakable
          enticing oasis of tenderness and zeal,
              no one
                    but the drummer,
             who from a crooked home built another one,
                  right here
                       from below
                           out of emptiness
                                      for him to be
                                           the only son
                                              the lonely sun
                                                the forlorn king
                                                  in this no man’s land
                                                     of unnamed identity.
 
                                                                     —Montpellier

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