I don't know much about it.
It's a big building, White inside and gray outside.
Maybe a few cracks in the walls,
big enough for the lizards, to slip through.
And maybe it's in the jungle.
I can't say more about it.
Because I was never there. Oh yes: the corridors are long,
Linoleum, relocated, multiple times, Traces of carted beds.
And arrows, himmelblau, which might result in the operating theaters,
after fifty hard-to-decide branches.
At every corner a sack full of shirts.
Disposed through a tilting window in the wall.
Shirts, Shirts, Small crumpled or neat fold.
And an air, that you can't choose, the you
give up, sour-sweet, steriliumgetränkt, although no one is there.
One air, that you can't breathe. And yet: now you have to!
Nothing can burn here, catch fire. Overgrown
the two entrances, former graffiti art, taxlbt.
A fire escape is still in operation. Leads to the roof, ten times
as big as a tennis court, from a rust-leaf railing
fenced. Barely enough to the groin.
Now hold on tight, big child and enjoy the sight!
Nothing but trees, tangled green, jungle, directionless,
as far as the eye can see, nothing but aberration. Hold on tight, of
big child, even if you can't breathe, because some kind
Homesickness torments you. You have no choice.
And that's all I can say.
(2.11.21)