Son of the desert
A forest, sinking on the ground,
full of the singing voices of birds
and of the odour of animal and beast.
Sunbeams caught in waters black.
Mountains, bones grinded to sand.
The wind of no recall above,
whirling up in dust and sinking,
flattening history’s traces.
At the golden pool you watch the bathing of
your horse,
in green deserts dreaming of the desert.
Sunken forest’s black shining birds
croaking your drive to the palaces of monotony.
Klaus
Wachowski 18.12.02
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