A supermarket carpark;
Sunday morning.
Flat and empty as my breath.
A room tiled and bare,
a cell cool and angular,
all light hushed.
A circle of trees
stand around me as a victim,
head back I shout at the sky.
The autobahn near Aschau.
Lights spot the midnight.
The few hidden from my touch.
Of course.The last one.
Through mist I hear soft voices.
My fingernails break on a sill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem