Description
Everyone here speaks different languages, one is from there, the other is from somewhere else, some from various places, but no one has a birth certificate. Neither do I, a permanent tenant, who keeps time, who looks for the copper, who forgets God after receiving his salary, forgets the languages he speaks, and is mute, like those overcrowded rooms, for centuries, full of melted bodies, bricks and sun, of dark proverbs, patricides and dead brothers, who could not know what is above, the Job that was not rewarded.
We live snorting other people's tiredness. Cursed inheritance, of believing in God. We are mere exiles, looking for prophets who fled long ago, with the right words to reach heaven. We are mere immigrants, confined, with a dense memory, very pagan, so free, and wild, without floors, or towers, a plain memory, that loses sight, blind, that centuries do not reach to pronounce it, to see it.
But God is born of that, of yesterday that denies other yesterdays, to live in a future that never touches, while today, as orphaned as we are, insists on giving life to what never lived. We wanted to get up, we wanted to mutilate our accents, our customs, we wanted to kill it, but we realized, that it was us, because we are terrified to know it, and that it is so similar: with languages, lost, mute, and with so much desire to live...
Oh Allah, oh my God...
Simon J. Correa T.