It is March and black dust falls out of the books Soon I will be gone The tall spirit who lodged here has Left already On the avenues the colorless thread lies under Old prices
When you look back there is always the past Even when it has vanished But when you look forward With your ***** knuckles and the wingless Bird on your shoulder What can you write
The bitterness is still rising in the old mines The fist is coming out of the egg The thermometers out of the mouths of the corpses
At a certain height The tails of the kites for a moment are Covered with footsteps
