Be quiet,
really now.
Although
you don’t see them, the francophonics are out.
Hide,
although you don’t hear them, they say many things.
Talk to my
ears they will, on every occasion.
At every
chance, if I be king of the mountains and my eardrums block,
they will
play their tune and rock.
Be quiet,
really now, shush,
the francophonics,
those little men in yellow
just can’t
keep quiet inside my head so mellow.
They will
throw little stoned words in other languages than mine
-every time
I switch side to my palate tongue vine-
As if they’d
recognise my own little jigsaw labyrinth in down half Nicosia,
because I chose
to ignore the language of my northern half.
Be quiet, keep
it low,
or the francophonics
will come out in the streets
and trust
me I would not want any of my breed to learn what I know,
what they
have passed over to me.
The francophonics
are a breed of their own
forgotten
here in isolation
after years
of dear consolation.
Because the
island has made its choice of language
and they
decided to stay in dark shadows inside thick matter inside my head.
Shhh, turn
it to mute,
you might hear
them talk to their younger sisters.
Sitting on
their golden chairs under the roots of my hair,
sewing the side
veils of my venetian masks
are the
lunaphones,
the degenerate
women worshiping the full moons of my miserable life.
The
lunaphonics come out and talk to me every month,
when they
are sure the francophonics are asleep,
and they
tell me other truths, totally contradicting,
and I don’t
know who to believe,
the lunaphonics
or the francophonics,
I guess I should
go with the latter,
they are
more ancient, for that matter.
And they
have a more gentle, aristocratic background.
That much
my island deserves.
Be quiet
now, and don’t talk to my ear while I sleep,
for they
hear, they know every little bit.