Maria Barbara Korynt (Poland)
a dream on the run
here is many door. and you always
hit into my most. often when there is no me.
you are stopping. and you are entering.
in order after oneself to leave something.
thank you very much.
only this many I can say
I am still on the run, for ages
I am calling spirits of the past
they recognised you as soon
as you crossed the threshold
the observer spread cards
and one discovered
there was your face
there with the false smile
woman in the green loose coat she tore all buttons
away saying - I count on you
under her arm, too firmly she clenched your head,
whom in a minute,
you put on the neck, of the one, of name reciting
to the memory of cities,
bringing up her left and to the right
you only mistook rising tides and drain holes for
the deluge - asilly think.
we are after all on the bend.
what's this? and 'rope of sand'
it is only an illusion
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