De Balie - The intellectuals' house

Running in their wilderness
Thinking of human troubles
Smoking an unexisting pipe
And drowning all their sorrows.
These men are the new future,
Which waits desperately for something
I sit and watch them,
Waiting for a change in the ways of becoming.
Standing at the bar, one or two
Of these shadows talk melodically,
Like a song of despair and hope.
The clock continues tickling and
These strangers still discuss.
What about? Pain, injustice and liberty
Freedom of achieving something more.
In the newspapers, a scarcity of happiness
Gives them motivation to go on.
After a no, a maybe should come
But so far, in the horizon, nothing else
Shines so fiercely.
The strangers continue, over and over
Throughout their life debts. Some come,
Others go, but the hope is still there.
Rumbling and scrambling,
All their minds join together. Like an orgasmic
Feeling of fear, anger, rage and stillness.
Against what? Once again, the words
Are dismissed from their function.
Social interactions get blurred in
An ever growing sickness of being.
Staying there, trespassing gates,
Feeling the loneliness of an empty round table.
A bottleneck effect of being born in a single place,
Living as a single simple mind, wishing
For eternity in desires and waiting for
The end of the days.
They read, they talk,
They display a rude conflict of ideas.
I’m still here, alone, listening
All the whispers the blowing wind brings
And waiting, waiting,
Waiting for the joy of life to come.
In the intellectuals’ private room, there’s silence.
The edge of day arises, through a dark sad sky.
One more station on the way,
And then a sad and still lonely departure.