“The language of law is a cold net full
of fissures
lavishly completed
like a book of signatures
in a funeral parlor:
it thinks of you as a
frog lost in a swamp.
Yet, its rules are my allowances, pot full of soup.
The power that emerges from the laws
shut my window to melancholy.
Law is a constant chamber music:
you don’t have to listen to their voices;
you could stop listening but cannot stop its charted plane
off to distant territories. They love peaks and mountains
and leveling the playing fields.
Musicians are accustomed to perfect scenery.
Living law drifts, foreign to its domestic doldrums
in a bundle of broken bones.
In this water everything is mean. The innocent
enters the river, he is washed away; it’s a barbarous zone
thicken with loss of hope, brilliant, deliberate,
its utility is something other than itself;
you can survive the demigod only if
you can make it chuckle at
its own seriousness.
That’s the one coal to smoke its chimney with at length.”