man as long as he passes his stop is wall

wall of heavy shoulders

and now the light is black

the sun salty

water no longer quenches the children’s eyes

their words wooden

voices no longer recognizable in the little space

left ajar in their gullets of sky

and like justice at the bottom of the well

verisimilitude reflects the tarnished gold of summer’s escapes

the frankness of their hungers

from

speaking alone

by 

tristan tzara

translated by

heather green