Da “beat poet” ruth weiss (n.1928 Berlin)
Estou preparando versão!
barefoot in winter. in the city. in the mid-west winter of the USA. i am seven years old. my toes are cold. too cold to tell the stories that keep me going in the summer. the blood in my toes tells me all the old stories. The stories that tell me i am a gypsy.
momma sez this is not true. how did you ever get such an idea. gypsies steal & make up lies about the future. how did you ever get such an idea, that you are a gypsy.
it is winter, my toes are cold all the way to my fingertips, and i tell my toes. don’t worry. i am a gypsy. i will find you shoes to make you warm, so you can keep telling me the stories.
in a building where many people live i look at galoshes outside the doors. one black pair after another they don’t belong to me i keep on walking down the halls, a red pair shouts, try me. they fit. almost. but i like my sandals better. the ones that i buy in a store. many many years later.
i am looking at my toes. in my sandals. where i sit by an ancient redwood tree. to keep the chainsaw from cutting it down. and my toes tell me the story of the redwood. and about surviving.