Thorns
Like a thorn I live in this world
live and die:
Someone bleeds because of me, someone cries
because of me
one person moves in, another moves out
and another still has his door bashed in, yet another
his skull:
All that I am capable of giving the world
is the mumbo-jumbo
I am reduced to, stammering and hoarse.
I actually fill the world with mumbo-jumbo
I am actually like the river that dries up
and fills its bed with rubbish and plastic.
I actually greedily fill myself with all sorts of stuff
and empty myself again.
I actually live in this world.
In that way the world and I are alike:
Both of us are equally inconsiderate.
But I do not change the world, it changes me
every second.
I do not love the world and it does not love me.
But the world is better at not loving
than I am.
When I die, I become part of the world
but until then I resist:
Like a thorn I live in this world
which bleeds and cries continually.
For the rose’s shadow over the sunlit wall
I would gladly give my life, and who in the world knows
if that is not what I am doing.
No comments:
Post a Comment