In the morning when I wake up,
the world wakes in my head
with creatures and screams smashing my bones.
I leave my room -
it's like a cave filled with the slain -
and shuffle off to the café.
I look intently at my cup - it's like a snake
relaxing on a summer afternoon
and think: 'This is my last cup in this city! '
But morning is still at its outset,
and I'll have to go through wars and kisses
and will only discover their flavour
after centuries
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem