how dare the streets look so glorious,
don’t they know they’re full of death.
can they not see the corpses,
are they blind or just used to that? to the scent.
how dare the sky catch fire to its own guts,
didn’t they make it known that’s not allowed?
they call it illness when I do it.
or worse, art.
how dare she shine brighter than any star,
doesn’t she know I’m not supposed to fall in love with souls shaped like that?
my grandma taught me that –
that apparently love and shapes go hand in hand.
who’d have known.
how dare clocks stop?
don’t they know time does not?
are they out for us? to put us to shame,
to leave us naked in the dark
facing our own pathetic reflection
that’s also made up.
how dare we make up so much and call it true?
how dare we invent the very word “true” and then worship its roots?
don’t we know self-centered is the worst thing we could be just behind insignificant?
but we do know insignificance.
we are faced with it every morning –
when the streets, the sky, her and the clock
dare do what we will not.
Today we are featuring a passionate poem by a young Catalan poet Ona Salvat. Her words are flaming, rebellious and daring, just like the title of this poem. Ona is a writer from Barcelona. She has been performing her poetry for more than two years in Catalan, Spanish and English, published the plaquette “Agredolç” earlier this year and is the Catalan editor of the the literary platform Liberoamérica, which will have its editorial debut in Spain before the end of the year with the poetry anthology “Liberoamericanas”.
Illustration, which goes so well with these burning words, is by a UK-based illustrator Yukai Du.