far away form my familiar childhood
is this boy trying to fix the breaks of a bike
I must stop trying to learn lessons
from his hands accustomed to iron and copper
in streets where we hung around on summer days
from the long hours he works
whereas we hate working itself in this century
from his incurious eyes
looking at the stuff we saved from a decaying sky
from the darkness he wants to get rid of
like a low cloud he drags round
seeing that I don’t know how to love
I must leave them all behind and go
all those books about the working class
that I know by heart, and stop equating
unanswered loves with revolutions
and I must leave my familiar childhood
at the top of the hill along with that bike
whose brakes are bust