No reward, no throne.
Neither the place of honor
Neither made out of the gold, nor made out of thorns.
I do not need a crown...
Defiant to admire me but pitiful,
to follow me with fear.
To devour me lives full of hunger
Souls of unfortunate vagabonds. All different ones
There are a lot of half-empty barrels.
They stink like mold
And the wine turns darker,
like blood on a piece of cotton.
And when leaking starts in the water spout
The drops are racing one another.
And their feet give them away, badly.
Numb or dead below the waist.
Topic(s) of this poem: life