Margarete, the way everybody mispronounces your name.
Never caring about what was left behind.
Never listening to a word you’re saying.
Always wondering what it was that brought you here.
They inquire who you are.
Not with a question mark.
You watch the corpses fall out of the sky.
Dead bridges and forlorn identities.
The wind tastes like dust and debt.
And you look up and smear away the tears and sweat.
You decorator, Margarete, clasping the hose.
Clearance, cleansing, the water coughs amongst your fist.
Crouching in the darkness, you feel emptied, drained.
You have to make yourself tall again, matter once more.
Because in this city of disasters you love yourself
And walk across the street with dreams on your back.
“The Daughter of Jephthah” by Alexandre Cabanel (1823-1889)