Yekta - 1.13

a soldier with no number
a unit with no status
I have the foresight of the defeater
the distance of the guy struck off the lists
I am the shot one that flees
from a city to another I still smoke
I have the face of the fear that fades
under the light of a mirador
I only know the bitches’ barking
and factory sirens
I reek of the tobacco of the questioning
and somewhere in my head windows are broken
I am the patience of the man that blackens those sentences
the opaque glass citizen
I fall asleep under the sheets of an unshared joy
I close the eyelids of characters
blotted out of a scene always unrelated to my story
and I try to read between the blank lines of the roads that cross the mirror
my life is but a long Sunday
where I am away in the emptiness of uncaring looks
may my lips keep for a while
the taste of the mouths that loved me