When they give me a poet’s stage,
a long tongue, blond hair,
then I will strut, proud as a rooster.
When they give me a red passport,
then my thoughts will shine.
But my old pictures will still smile.
I wonder if it’s actually possible to write revolutionary lines without an arrest warrant?
Without a receipt book from the World Food Programme?
Can I still be a good poet now?
The stage I mean will always be outside the law.