All you have to do is look at the sky
and, at the sight of the lightning bolt,
you might know when to escape
the bad weather’s master stroke
but not where to go…
You, Roaring Pandemic, you have exempted me from paying my taxes
taking my everything except for death;
she awaits me –
or the other way around –
because I have nothing left
apart from a broken screen
and a pain in the molars from
chewing too much air.
And you, heap of institutions, you, Holy Tetragram, you certainly
don’t give me the shelter I need;
the atheists and dissidents give it to me instead;
they, whose revolutionary cheeks
I kiss
because they burn their eyes
on paper or screens
reading of my troubles,
and with the eyes and lips
of their fearless hearts, they
soothe me
and keep the wheels of my mind going.