The ‘ordinary’ people sing on the edge of the grave.
When the hero howls and cries they are humming
in the middle of ropes, griefs, the deaths of roses.
The ‘ordinary’ people are not stones.
They are revengeful, bitter, quick to strike and laugh
and they buy oranges at the market-place.
The ‘ordinary’ people say, ‘I’ll not be put upon.’
They spend their money freely on food and drink
and then they have no money, only hope.
Where does the hope come from that they see,
who live precariously by the deaths of roses,
and hang their washing among tragedies?
I begin to think there are no ‘ordinary’ people.
Or rather that they’ve learned about tragedies
from birth and can simply pass them by
or walk through them clutching food, bottles.
I believe there is no such thing as tragedy,
that the hero has deceived us, is the red infant
howling and screaming from his wooden cage.