to live, one must say goodbye
to the good old days
white shiny porcelain days
no rug and hands can ever
hold them for like the wind
they shall go and what is left
shall be your days of weariness
and dust
settles on your palms and on
your forehead
the sweat of the coming days
living a life of the anonymous
wanting to be free from the
prison cell one makes for oneself
pains self-inflicted and the game
of solitaire begins anew
the trucks that pass on the road
all huge and the same
over and over again
one spits and goes back with
his cards. Fate rules.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem