Q. [en] Poem by Zyw Zywa

I live in a half-home
hours from the city
in a rubble village
from which the youth is leaving
and where I don't hear language
that speeds up my pulse

I recognize the coats
of my neighbours and I think
that they are decent people
strangers that I greet
and from whom I don't want
to know more than from myself

It's all clearly
a question about friendship
whether there are doors
which I open myself
and what choices
I turn over in my mind