Sentences come by themselves sometimes
I can hear them
They push themselves in
While I am waiting for nothing else
Writing too is a kind of dream
that does not know its own meaning
It waits and wanders and wonders words
The language of a poem demands double troubleand more
How surprising it would be for me
If beauty and wonder came with my words.
Topic(s) of this poem: mystery, poetry, writing
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.