In The Ironic World - Poem by Max Reif
In the ironic world,
first upon a mirror before
reflecting to our Earth.
Thoughts are buried,
not spoken, and grow
into strange trees
with mutated fruits.
Even the air
before our nostrils,
I can feel it. How I long
for naive, direct days that vanished
beneath the waves with the heroes
and are waiting
within my heart
to be re-born!
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