The first of two this century.
Written from this mad stream,
trusting oneself with love.
From you, stupid, ugly and fat.
But he didn't care about ink blots.
He was not entirely at ease with this format.
So he laughed crookedly,
and despised you (or so you say)
he liked mail from Mars anyway!
Is it true?
Whether he was still crawling over heaps of earth, I do not know.
Whether he was rolling in the dirt or training on which one
Climbing wall.
It was a bit of a mystery to me, what he did.
But he always emerged from his deeds sparkling clean.
Was judged by his deeds.
Wasn't stupid at all, ugly or obscure.
When the second love letter from you reached him,
In this century.
At that moment he was obviously not whole
with yourself, opened the messenger, the:
Poetry the clumsy.
Poems, with a curvature.
And remembered you, like a beautiful woman.
Is it true.
( 11.3.21)