Tsead Bruinja Biography

sadness ripe and crumbling mirrors her
in the market salesman's trays

delicate is she who loves apples
he sees that he sees her stubbornly
...

my love nobody knows how in earlier lives
we passed each other by in the street or just missed the bus
in which one of us sat or in which you were my sister my mother
...

he galloped out of his final dream
like a rusty knight on a white-washed horse
with a rigid dick and tidings for his wife
of the joy he'd found in fantasies of her
...

he is the man who has to march
has to march and march and march

so full of desire
and hooked on women
...

each word I lay down before you
on the ground and at your feet
is a word too many
...