| The Fair
for Bernat I heard the words come out of the mud. Turning slowly spiralling colours; light green Spring or snow, the death of a friend; it didn’t matter. Horses in all colours and parasols red and white. Sweets and candyfloss fly like a painting by Dali. My index finger points towards the sky, thank you, thank you for my bread, my daily bread. Pieces of mud fall out of the sky and I catch them all with my mouth. They are miracles, sustaining, us and more. |
 |