Let the ones who have the world
Think of what to do with it.
All we have are words
And we live wonderfully in that poverty.
It's consoling to be the ground
It's prideful to be a stone
It's too wise to be fire
It's pious to be nothing
Dirty from an overly sung forest
The poet sings despite poetry
Without a heart without violence and without a spark
Like a word which got over music
Freedom has become old-fashioned
My real name waits for me to die
You bird behind the sun in the middle of a sentence
By which we violently kiss the future
Everything burned: that's a holiday
The obedient ash
Flour of nothingness
Turns to a scabby dog behind my back
To a spark-bird before me
Behind my back, it tells me the truth
Oh turtledove
You're the real accent of our dead tenderness
Make the dawn out of our fatigue
Smell is the time the flower owned
But a wordn't says
it's too
late
A flowern't says
it's
night
A birdn't says
it's a
flame
And is says it isn't
Hearing that, the bird cusses
The flower says it's hell
The real word is yet to be born
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