The hand
There were no scratch cups for the big ones.
Why actually for me?
Gripping started at the beginning:
Preferably after that, what could break.
Nanu! I dropped something, it was stopped by the ground. So I repeated the act, let something fall, My rag saw, How it broke and amazed: I can do that much! Happy shards arise from me!
I was about my rags for three years, Then he discovered the thumb sucking on me.
I can't tell, How deep the emptiness felt for my rag, When it was called: This thumb has to get out!
I had merged me like that, as if my rag had broken me, Instead of just sucking.
During this time my rag dreamed almost every night, He would have lost his thumb, and he looked for it everywhere.
Then my rag opened my eyes, lay the thumb next to him in his rail on the soft down, And my rag cried, Because his mouth tasted, as
If he had swallowed a rusty track.
Someday, When my rag was bigger, The stupid habits shock, he looked at me testing and critically stated: There are no lifestyle. Only small cracks and gutters pull lean shells through the slightly hilly in the zigzag, Schrumpelige meat. As soon as I make a fist, everything is swallowed, Like from a stuffing mushroom.
Nevertheless, they said my rag, they said about me and my delicate delicacy at the time: These are artists' hands.
Hands of artists? The finely chased line prophecies of my rags a future without arriving! Without stop! Without any noteworthy deed! Voila.
My rag knew one back then, which could access so clearly and strongly, that he fulfilled a dream of the flight of the canary of my rag:
For him, he built a cable car from the Panormastrasse down to the big föhre in the Major Garden.
(The major thundered the panoramic road up and down in his car and was never there, So his garden was so overgrown!)
My rag said about such, The soldering, screw, can repair, with me, and, invent, or drive a single -down, He said to himself:
Do not interfere with meditation, these people! You can do something through the deed, The magic is a natural wing.
By the way, it soon turned out, that I was at most good in dry dancing. Gives, in the air, Where I didn't ran any danger, get tangled me, Break needles or salt the sauce.
Drew waves, Snakes and creepers, Along my rags, What did this do so, as if he were like hyperion, from ether!
He was difficult to fake athlete.
I have a slope once, who was almost vertical, cleared by stones, The earth above Maladers planted with young oaks.
I have never thrown a child into the air and caught up with both hands and in this way the self -confidence
doubled in my lousy rags.
Instead, I once threw a white velvet glove in the air, Tipped the lip with my piano finger and sent a kiss in one direction, that did not exist. A fictitious on the flickering highway etc..
Then, much later, I once burned myself on the stove. My rag was in shock, that he couldn't react in time.
So I stayed there for as long, Until he finally knew, What he has about me.