Old-broken-drums

Hanging from my neck

an old-broken-drum is being beaten

sometimes by known hands

sometimes by unknowns hands,

I try to beat a new drum

in my own rhythm that springs

from heart-beats

my rhythm is the splash of my blood

it’s the sound of my breaths

it’s the echo of my soul

my rhythm is me,

Alas! Each time others appear

and beat my drum ruthlessly.

My neck refuses to carry it

but some men come

and try to convince my neck

to bend down,

they forget that for a genuine rhythm

neck must be straight

eyes must be clear

and hands mustn’t be fake.

Treading through bent necks

dusty eyes

and fake hands,

makes my walk difficult.

After a great effort

I erase and wipe out the mosses

that had made the pavement slippery,

in the meantime

a warbler from New York Forest

crossing the sky over ‘The Statue of Liberty’

and putting its beak near my ears

whispers a note of love,

and I, as an eagle, flutter my wings,

then fly high in the sky

the old drum falls down

in a war field

and breaks into pieces,

the fights and skirmishes stop.

now they know

they are fighting for the redundant

for yesterday,

not for the new

not for tomorrow.

A flamingo in Europe dances,

I see an old petal, in its beak,

collected from Kiev just before the war.

Thank you warbler!

I’ll continue to erase and wipe out

mosses seen on dilapidated embankments

I’ll continue to throw out

old-broken-drums

hanging from bent necks.

Good bye! Old-broken-drums!