WOODEN CROSSES OF THE CHEATED POOR

In this unpleasant repository of lies,
where my dreams fall apart one by one,
I am sitting in the dusk next to an open window.
And the wind is inexplicibly whispering through the fog
- as if whispering its thousand years
of silence and solitude to me –
and carrying around a multitude of endless lawsuits
of that high court, where the poor, with candles in their hands,
are looking for justice in the mud,
because you cannot tell a pauper in the mud
just like you cannot tell a dog.

Since that day has dawned
(if it dawned at all)
they raise a thicker crust of mud
with new lawsuits, which tenaciously
sticks to the courtroom desk in these places,
like horse manure sticks to sidewalks,
piling layer after layer.
The cheated poor leave lukewarm
tears
behind their tracks, just like soggy
deer leave puddles behind their tracks
when they are taken to be shot down.

In the moist air of the high court,
the voice of the poor is weakening, and his
prayer
is slowly dragging towards the judicial ear.

The thick fog is everyhere. The fog up there,
where the river of tears is flowing down mountain
streams,
the fog down below, where the stained water
rolls between the judicial desk and
the immoral dirt of the
great (and dirty) court.
The fog is creeping into the souls of undertakers;
the fog rests upon the wooden crosses
of the cheated
poor.