the expectation brings.
Door opened to a crack.
Hour of the torn.
hour, where the bridges shine,
the cities from the burning of the roots of the grass.
Shadowed eye bores home,
in the wreath of silver gnats a lamp,
right at the front of the ramp.
Am I that lamp?? Throw hastily
a look back, faces, the
pale questioningly, around the one way
circling in the wreath of silver gnats.
Now it is night.
hour, in which the torn
have to sleep, sink eyes,
a shadow on your conscience,
exhausted, let it burn.
But that's not possible! get torn
die Hinundhergerissenen. Must they
the bridges through doors, the burning ones
cities, the grasses, the eyes unshaded,
against the shadow on your conscience.
The lamp goes out.
Morning.
And now?
.