.jpg)
Oh you messenger of the foothills what kind of bird
are you holding under your heart? The world replaced by an eye
over a river stands evil asleep you dream and the bitter fruit
of the riddle's climate and the gap becomes an arch
of our bitter lustful days during the
stars under which I fell bewitched.
The Sun shall fall where I kneeled.
Speak you shadows am I sensing betrayal
from the back of my dim head. Oh you sad North of the body
turn the sky made out of four winds into a fog
over a wide open water which has blown up
the darkness of my eye over my whole body. You
uncheerful coal when songs inside me find
a dark abundance which racks me with hunger.
All we have are our words
over the waters which forebode a play of secret
flows when the top of the hill discovers a pain in me, kneeling
before my core which dreams of a painless flower.
May whatever scares the river out of the ground cure us
when bread turns our world into stone
when the mirror turns into her dead face
for birds of a feather above an evil hill
Oh you messenger of the foothills what kind of bird
are you holding under your heart? The world replaced by an eye
over a river stands evil asleep you dream and the bitter fruit
of the riddle's climate and the gap becomes an arch
of our bitter lustful days during the
stars under which I fell bewitched.
The Sun shall fall where I kneeled.
Comments
Post a Comment