Something Small
Peycho Kanev
In some old basement in France
the rats wake up and start to worry at the
forgotten paintings of Monet:
dreams for the bearded Cuba run out of
my toes --
what a beautiful September! –- pain,
sweet as honey gush out of me, whizz around
and the again penetrate my bellybutton-
I part the drapes, I watch outside and
I notice the green of the trees
the blue in the sky and the music,
the unsolved color of the music
but I ignore them
at this place, in this time
we can’t sing,
and the music, yes, the music is dying,
all the great sopranos are dead.
I light a candle and hold it for a whole
minute
outside starts to rain
in the Vatican one holy man
is shaking
fat
chance.
Peycho Kanev
In some old basement in France
the rats wake up and start to worry at the
forgotten paintings of Monet:
dreams for the bearded Cuba run out of
my toes --
what a beautiful September! –- pain,
sweet as honey gush out of me, whizz around
and the again penetrate my bellybutton-
I part the drapes, I watch outside and
I notice the green of the trees
the blue in the sky and the music,
the unsolved color of the music
but I ignore them
at this place, in this time
we can’t sing,
and the music, yes, the music is dying,
all the great sopranos are dead.
I light a candle and hold it for a whole
minute
outside starts to rain
in the Vatican one holy man
is shaking
fat
chance.