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WALK DOWN THE BOULEVARD, Leila Samarrai, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”

alienationimage found here

These streets will never be close to me.
The land is lonely, and the sky is
A dreamy shroud the color of the bloodied stone.

Wind taps on the bones,
The birds gnash with their fangs.
My imprisoned walk desultory from collisions
with revived pillars.
I walk the ghostly cage of felt
Which serves to soothe the birds
Lost in a dream, cumbersome, I grow
Amidst Necessity.

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I AM NOT REALLY FROM AROUND HERE, Leila Samarrai

I AM NOT REALLY FROM AROUND HERE

I no longer even know what you asked me
Nevertheless, ask. As you please!
Through freedom
Devours the spiteful intellect
In the rattle we become humans
„How are your sneakers?!”
I have dark ones.
And capricious!
and (rarely) passionate.
All of them!
Highly unfavorable!
But,
Where did you get
That I am selling My Sneakers?
Why are you looking at sneakers?
Should I
Go barefoot up the steep thorn?
There is something overwhelmingly ridiculous in suffering,
There is something overwhelmingly seducing in losing
Therefore – I gift away!
Nobody controls the windmills.
(Maybe…)
Laughter? Or….
It is me
barefoot
perched in remembrance.

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FRAGMENTS, “The Second Birth Of Tragedy”, Leila Samarrai

FRAGMENTS

а)

The decomposing hour bleeds
The fields and tree tops
Sweat profusely
Cast down, the branches descend
Into bright summer
And angry dream
The scream of the trees was suffocated
A tree cried for its ripped out leaves
The years poured over the traces.

б)

The dark that envelopes is getting thicker
And his astrological depths
In which the stars hid
Split my soul
To a dream and an abyss
I followed the path of a dream
Into the abyss of darkened things
Stirred up is the step
The shadow escaped
The light dissolved
In the eye
Madness watches over.

ц)
The book spreads the pages for the blind writer
(The harsh plotter skillfully wits)
The written intrigue knows only the dastard
Before the fire of laziness and rough silences
Wild are the words of the stumbled spirit:

„Consolation is needed
for shame from memories
when fallacy trembled …
when colors were violent
and the present far away.”

Burn pages!
Shine, books!
On the radiant obelisk
The living monument!
In frozen air
In fire made white!

д)

Fools
Scrape through tears
And stagger down the corridor
Of Terror
With paper in hand, some chill in the accent
Of a wild stranger, satrap of a persuasive eye
Bossa nova immersed into
The heel of finely step.

е)

The Harlequin cursed the king
The King forgives
He is in the middle of a conquest
While silence screams
The murdered does not speak
The Harlequin listens.

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