There Is No Personalism
Definitive,
a dry phrase, dripping with meaning,
which dissolves
the pallour of revolution.
Incitement,
barking message,
cuts through discontent
with rotating blades,
it awards morals and sense
of living, watching
the sun of the ancestors.
Do not use personalism,
not because the self does not exist
with the fronds of dishonour,
it exists, but it is pathetic.
Not I, one wants to be impersonal
peering into the dark,
intuition of dried herbs
and served cold.
Mothers swearing
the latest jacquerie of troublesome children.
Fathers sipping wine
whitened by the many waits for dialogue.
Sons savouring cold metal,
without regard or understanding
for hunched shoulders,
heroes for a day, piecework fools.
There is no personalism,
only clumsy attempts
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