Horia Pop, My Inner Self
In the Shadow of the Nietzsche Monument
Tony Kitt
Blossoming a soul requires roots.
Guesses unfold before weary eyes,
human errors write their names
into the lawn,
into the book of darkness.
Philosophy is tart.
Philosophy is the art of squeezing a pheasant
into a pigeon-hole.
We gorge on felicities.
We embrace what’s dying.
The rivulet of dignity flows
il tempo di adagio.
A beam of light pursues each one of us,
and it has a face;
it’s called an opinion.
Germany is the past,
statelessness the future.
A moment is an oblique spot.
A civilisation that glorifies death–
what does it care about life?
His shadow,
the white finitude of thirst.
The way he wears his head.
The way to say
there’s no way.
Tony Kitt
Blossoming a soul requires roots.
Guesses unfold before weary eyes,
human errors write their names
into the lawn,
into the book of darkness.
Philosophy is tart.
Philosophy is the art of squeezing a pheasant
into a pigeon-hole.
We gorge on felicities.
We embrace what’s dying.
The rivulet of dignity flows
il tempo di adagio.
A beam of light pursues each one of us,
and it has a face;
it’s called an opinion.
Germany is the past,
statelessness the future.
A moment is an oblique spot.
A civilisation that glorifies death–
what does it care about life?
His shadow,
the white finitude of thirst.
The way he wears his head.
The way to say
there’s no way.