Don’t they know that?
It was dawn — or maybe dusk.
The stars, suspended, oscillated between pale and burning again.
The moon, of a dark red, sang of pain in a bright yellow.
On the edge of existence, beyond disappearance,
the silent cries of ruin echoed everywhere.
Nails, thorns, and the scattered glow of a broken hope
spread all over the earth.
Thousands of desire germinated in the eyes of the living.
Around a torn shoe floated great cruelty.
In every courtyard, a dark image, a wild vision rested,
and the stones of patience burned for fear of cracking.
A bunch of bastards wandering around,
as if every new day belonged to the opportunists, to the troublemakers.
Enemies disguised as friends everywhere,
like locusts growing in a field that has not been plowed.
And yet,
I believed in tomorrow full of hope,
to sparkling loves,
to the light that reconciles all shadows,
to the violets of the day that will be reborn,
to the rain that caresses the earth.
Why, why this early destruction?
Why is this treacherous fog killing every glance?
Why are these screams of fear, these rivers of pus?
The flowers are starving to death.
The sun is afraid to set at the foot of the hill.
The night is ashamed of the day.
Don’t they know that?
Don’t they know that?
The colder the bitter the taste.
The Poet of Light
04/10/2025 – Paris
Author: CAROLİNE LAURENT TURUNC
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