Sin título III
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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