there’s nothing sweet about sixteen

feeble candles burn themselves out to death,

(hard cold flesh burns and reeks

in their motherly warmth)

and bury themselves in blue fondue.

someone picks them up gently between two fingers

and harshly throws them away.

(there's something nauseating about dead candles)

somewhere, a song stops playing.

somewhere, the evening ends.

they adjust their dark coats and shake my hand,

the lights are slowly departing.

my history teacher says communists are dry and

so is their history and i spit on the ground.

(and so does che).

young blood spills on rough concrete.

yellow leaves fall from the sky onto my terrace

in the night like ill crows

and whisper to me that autumn

is almost here and i cry myself to sleep.

yellow leaves never lie.

august passes away quickly

and i mourn for it sometimes.

(in a dream, i walk over august's dead body,

and it waves back).

pretty pretty words were strangled

inside my throat and trampled under heavy feet

(i hear them shaking like broken glass

sometimes)

in moist july nights.

september promises to be harsher.

this time, there is a finality with which

dark coats are adjusted and hands shook.

the lights are slowly departing.