(BG)

 

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A doubtful comfort


Creation... O God!

A Procrustean cot.

Fragmented thoughts

Crossed out emotions

 

A safety match,

Flared up against the wind.

A flight without a bird.

A fish without umbrella...

 

A naive hope

That your metaphor

Will make the world

Better...

 

The longed for time

You still wait in vain.

In a single life

You die time and again

 

Still, there is a comfort:

The creator of evil

Suffers on his part

The throes of creation.

 


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