ForkWord
Poems by Inchiki
Let Op! Drempels
The ink itself says more for truth than any words
Outside it rains, but in here it is warm
Because of the fire which cracks and makes a hollow sound
Damp clothes hang about
They dampen the air
Three people lie and speak nothing
My hand is tanned and dark brown already by the sun
It writes the same
Another week of things done
Sometimes I sit in the fields here - not new - and try to find something
- new - It's overdone but necessary, or I feel nothing
Every evening we drink hot milk by candlelight -
No electricity here
Then I go to sleep and dream strange dreams
Sometimes people ask me if I'm ok - what to say?
"No, because I don't know who I am" ?
The answer is not in words or ink (I think)
The past is like a shadow with no sun
It's there when I look
Six bright squares of light, neatly framed
I'm talking about the window now, never mind
Mind stitches together all those little bits of clumsy infinity
Somewhere there's a really nice place
It has a warm fire and a spot to sleep
No one to disturb the endless melody
There are no windows or doors
One is always inside
