there's a house of cards
with blue stress marks
on the walls
on the ceiling I painted a bird,
my white bird, I let her out,
a gust of wind blew it right off
my hand.
maybe now,
if you look out of the mirror
that hides you in vain,
you will notice a small shivering
dove or a sparrow beneath
the sharp verge of your roof,
do believe: once you learned
how to speak my weird
language.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem