My accident, my little one,
they say I should love you without hope,
for hope is only despair and failing,
one dirty habit I shoud break
like a vase for flowers
not blooming on this earth.
Small breasts and beautiful legs
won’t keep him, neither ties
make stardust of endless lies.
It looks like fate crushes to chalk
the shell you curled into,
like it confiscates all the blue.
I can’t be sorry to want more
than a black sky with suns of steel.
I can’t be sorry to want a grand joy.
When I see your roots growing in air
in a fatherless moonlight,
all the lovers strangely lie
side by side, like knifes.
But surely it is a strange place,
this maternity corner, all white
and silent like porcelain, not yet broken.
And hope sounds like your red heart
beating under his palm,
hope – is just one phone call
before the pill.
I know nothing of death, my little one
and I don’t want to know. Oh.