***
You
are human until your bones
begin
to sing with sadness. After that,
the
roads that open up swallow you,
and
over you comes the lust for loving,
for
kissing tenderness on both cheeks;
and
from far away comes to me the need
to
love—willingly or forced— the one
who
hates me and digs my grave,
the
one who breaks a child’s toy
and
tears his coloured scraps of paper,
the
woman who weeps for me
until
the longing for death comes
over
me; and I seem to hold my heart
in
my hands when I run my hand
along
my rib and come across the wound of Jesus.
No comments:
Post a Comment