South Berlin – Nicholas

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It is 3 in the morning in a bar about to close.

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Nicholas enters to sell his newspaper, finishes his rounds.

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You say : “Comme c’est doux à mes oreilles”. You tell us how the word “raton laveur” is amusing.

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Nicholas lives probably in the streets, in abandoned places.

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You say that your favourite word is “tintamarre”, but that the funniest is “chauve souris” ; a mouse that is bald ! you repeat, laughing.

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Nicholas speaks French with the slowness of alcohol ; words are detaching themselves like in a wonderful theatre.

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You introduce us to the word “affourager”. I know that we will always have it with us, that it will always call you back to us.

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Nicholas will go back to Swabia, to take care of an ill mother too poor to be of any interest to the State.

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You say that you don’t love her, and that she does not love you either.

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“Mon coeur palpite” resonates while Nicholas disappears in the dark.

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You told me that you could only make poetry if you were addressing it to someone.

Will you write to me from Swabia Nicholas ?

I am longing for the day, I want to see the day

where the funambulist people,

surviving on torn apart ropes,

this mass of humans so intelligent, so subtle, so gentle,

wrecked,

invisible,

absent from the books, the museums,

will rise, and shine.

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