Blinking lights through the barbed wires,
the distance is real. I can’t measure it but I know I can’t reach there in a long sleep.
I have never been prolific when it comes to passing a day without thinking about bullets and bloods and dancing words and canned foods and supermarkets and people always faking a smile.
I am thousand years old…I am old enough to know the gaps between these metal cages
and I am going to see another thousand if I have to live these years all over again.
Some people like us contain limited gunpowder in their tanks,
they are meant to live short, see portions and howl a lot in times of their endings.
The poet inside me knows when I am howling and that’s not a very cool thing to do.
What if tomorrow I get the offer of abandoning my art and in return I get a rusted caravan to travel up to long green ocean…
I think I have earned the right to take that offer,
I think the gunpowders are all burned it’s just blood to be flamed now.
My tiny little caravan…come soon baby I am flapping my wings to get the wind from that nocturnal ocean.

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Photograph: Boris Dumont.