Let Me Tell You People Something
The women in my country, they are going into the yard with pots & spoons to bang at crows. Always, this. Because crows will eat every fruit from the trees, & then? Nothing left for the man, the baby at table. But listen: crow is not afraid of woman. Crow is not afraid of pot & spoon, it will come back tomorrow. Crow will look at woman, like: you bring pot & spoon? I do not care. But tomorrow, maybe you forget the name of this city, your mother. Maybe you take just one small box or just one case, fly to another house, put your box on the floor & ask: this box, who is it? Who is living in my house? You are forgetting, maybe. But in my country, we take the young asparagus in March when it walks on the hills. Asparagus is like the persons we have loved, standing there, in the house of our parents. But you? Must write the name of your city on the T-shirts. Every name more huge & lying across the chest, like a creature. Always, you weep in your small clothes. Near fountains, on the high balconies. Also, on bridges I have seen. You weep when the rain is not stopping, but also: no rain. And this weeping you do? Is just the ghost of the house you leave for another house. As for me, I am living in this place now many years. I do not forget my house, my mother in the yard. My sister with her spoon. I do not weep in your way of ghosts. That’s all.
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