You. by Miroslava Konecná

you, whose mind’s wondering directionlessly

and like a thunderstorm wanting to burst into an infinity

you, who do not see an exit beyond loneliness

are hasting with a short step.

.

exhausted

.

injured

by a war, whose ammunition’s words

and speers of the war_sharp hateful gaze.

.

you love the games of Prague’s alleys.

you,

a civilized child

a child of the millenium

a child of a new age.

painfully belonging, communing without communion.

a wanderer above an ocean of mists,

or through a stormy ocean.

you want to scream and hand-swing a broken bottle

threaten with death the whole world

just because you hate its shape

you awake and homeless

even within the district of your own mind.

you want to gather and redistribute

but you were not gifted.

you were not enabled.

you were not inspired.

powder-dry

under all the other’s moist.

without the option to clench thirst with your own ideas.

you see and admire

and gasp for breath.

and know

your jealousy’s not a blessing.

it‘s not pure.

and shouldn’t be allowed.

_

you’ve learnt to leave your form

and to become

a shared consciousness.

at least for a break of a moment

to bend the reality

and not be you.

you’ve learnt to suppress

the voices of a kinship.

the tension that

would force you

to not remain silent.

fearful eyes meeting any good news.

and rage welcomes the bad ones.

after a while you’ve adopted the face.

given onto you by others.

and I.

I worry for you in your desperate desire

to not be

I shout at you, into you.

.

child!

I see you in your size, your whole scale of selves

and I despise your sheepish self-sedation!

.

you frown upon my vision_

you tear my vision of yous_

but after all

didn’t you – too

- want to trust

your worthiness.