passing by

Towers and pyramids built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax
pierce the eyes in the sky. Dogs quarrel behind yesteryear’s rain
and yesterday’s soup, pharmacists paint the puddles.
Your relatives would never bring to the grave
your favorite dish. Junk food is prohibited in the hereafter
unless you are Andy Warhol. An awkward figure
on a creaky bicycle wearing a frayed bathrobe
and carrying a scythe in an inept hand passes by
giant dismantled monuments to the last communists
and stranded submarines on fire. Towers and pyramids
built for cattle and fowl to sleep and relax have been always surrounded
by oddballs in search of another language.

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