After Paul Celan- A quiet poem

Papa tells me
not to cry
tears are of no use to the
the generation of friends

that are gone for ever

no family

to stand

no bills

to avoid

no houses

to build

no systems

to regard

no open toes afraid of the cold

no pools of release

what use are the hot drops except to mark the ache in a clear ink no one will read except your weary flesh dried and cracked
drenched in someone else’s sweat

holding on
an
addiction to the past
no one sees
fascination with blank faces
eyes refracting heart walls
to protect
the parchment of historical ‘supposed to’

craving an individual category of soil to rest
that doesn’t exist.