Sunday, April 17, 2011

rough translation of Sunday plays

tapping the keyboard as if playing with piano
seeking for the right keynotes to the shed called life
keys are pressing hard words onto my fingers
i do NOt like those cold mores
when forced to think, to create
error in spontaneity. you say.
when sitting on a tree-branch, good.
to bes saying. you say me-unknown keynotes.
approach me. we' ll play the notes of harmony
without fear of chaos, full dusk,
sad full moons. Sky.
There everything is written by us,
when looking above and it resists.
That' s when, even those full moons miss their voice
Take me. To them. To heights.
I' ll sink into your voice, swallowing myself.
I will roll as a bundle of wet yarn
creating traces behind you. As in that sky.
we'll find us there.

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