Nuuk conversations - October 2018
Qivittoq
green ghosts over the black sky
in vast glimmering translucent lights
she crosses the street cursing the ice
her pink boots struggling with the frozen road
brutally
there is no poetry here
nothing to hide the rawness of her walk
and the hunger of her wandering
she is the ghost from the hills
the voice of the dead whalers
the dead Greenlandic hunters
she talks to no one anymore
the wind avoids her anger
more than anywhere it is brutal
here
the void brings the icebergs floating down endlessly
encapsulated frozen blue light
we want it so badly to shine with beauty and dignity
but there is no poetry just relentless ice and sea
through her the cold and wind speaks the story
everything has a soul she was told
now it is lost to the bright clear images of captured alterations
taken and replaced with white walls of novelty and deceit
banished
she has wondered far form home, far from now in time
only to find no poetry will serve
any more