Crows, sinister in the sky
Wings of pestilence
Festive in a banquet of an abyss
As dark as your pale, lurid lips
Your lips as they move,
As busy as the train in a station
Embellish my longing, seducing me into the night
I cannot move, with legs of stone.
I cannot write anymore, I am at a loss
Not for words, but for a desire to breathe as much
Air as I could ingest, what is this, a tulip on my skin?
Have you been meandering aimlessly again?
I cannot write anything good and satisfactory,
My senses are dull, my mind benumbed
In these words, should you sense an urgency,
That I am in need of assistance, as the fireworks whirred at dawn.
Crows and tulips,
Leave such bitter taste on my lips.
Gruesome crows, offensive tulips.
In the night, scarcely a vision in the black waters.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem