His Genes Are Non-Revolutionary

he goes for a while
circles the ground
where he was falling on
he’s looking around
waiting for someone —

he was alone
there are a lot of people
shouting words and phrases
out of spaces
he felt unwelcome —

finally he left
expecting nobody following him
but there were some
who some might call
children —

he’s leading them to an abyss
they are flying
well, not exactly up
they were flying down
never reaching the ground —

it happened slowly
everything always happens slowly
all of a sudden there is a light
in front of the thinking limits
there lies a soft blanket —

reason is not welcome
believing is a word of the past
but thinking is treason
in the days of revolution
he sighs at last.

Scriptorium '77