That,  like a fish swimming in silent waters, i talk with you every day,

How do you think i could put these snowflakes into words?

And what words are,  if not just fog on the grass blades?

There is so little space, a tiny crack
              where the beats of the heart hardly can breathe, and
Days are rising high  like  smoke in the sky,

What are words in the end, my dear, if not shooting guns in the forest,
the life that starts with the finish line,
The noise that comes out through the mouth of a beggar,
of a killer?
….
And yet,
still,
there is so much hope in a whisper