While he speaks it's like the stars fall
into the beautiful water from some eternity behind changeable shapes,
he points his finger to an unimagined yet false time
where the past is yet to pass
and says:
he who goes there shall arrive on the day before the day he left,
to a dissimilar utopia unfaithful to what's behind it
where the awful song of otherwise praised birds is.
He doesn't keep anything a secret, he talks about
every stain in the eye, every cloud in the soul
the future isn't everything that's going to happen,
a lot of things will simply repeat
the past isn't everything that's gone for good,
and a part of future remains unknown.
He teaches us how to not lose individuality
with our hope, with our beautiful humane face
he teaches us to recognize future
in what we do, in what will come
for woe is he who loses every similarity to this city,
woe is he who doesn't have his place on this square
woe is he who measures himself by his shadow
which is the day of his unlit blood.
The future is there, it just needs to be recognized
and segregated.
Oh white city, oh city of flowers on whose avenues wheat
blooms
once thrown into the ground, never thrown away
like when you get down, like when you disappear
only to be able to appear - buried gold.
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