Pinches

I cross the bridge
It is a border
Between
Old and new
Awake and tired
My left shows off
Fogs voluntarily hiding
Exhausts of
Burning dirt in the sky
Even bridges have forgotten
To grow
For it is too sad
To connect dirt with dirt
My right bears the
Scars of well-thinking
Righteous bourgeois
There bridges flourish
Maybe too much because
We forget
What nice clothing often entails
It is Sunday and the market of the poor
Even
Dares spreading close to
The beautiful castle
One side
Marriage of picturesque stones with
Hand-made roofing
Other side
Divorce of the ugliness of
Common concrete with unemotional slates
I am on the bridge
And the cars deafen my ears
The wind burns my nose
And my head hurts
I belong to this bridge
To this conspicuous border
From where I admire
The ancient and the modern
I wear old clothes
I cannot renew
And yet work with
Royal blue blood
Opposites pinch me
And I refuse to
Choose my camp
Maybe I should not stay
And return to this home
I have not found yet

Irène Corso, Namur, 22/10/2007