you were a poet, I won't say - good, but,
is playing dominoes, light touch, only
the stumble about the one step, everything
recognized as the poor joke.
and what it stayed?
Swedish cocoa!
blizzard the winter and the gusty weather
jokes from the funeral. the white cherub stood
on the base, in the crown from feathers.
broken wing - why, and what for?
and drunk lout, he was pleased loud
blue turned into the grenade,
into silence words escaped
now joyfully
the combed woman, on ''the pulled tooth',
is catching flowers on the meadow, like fish
and supposedly is creating words anew
from another field - not one's
is tearing seedlings out
she is watering with manure so that everything grows
as is it squelching in shoes, and she only
with sides is working, That as with oars
remains of lungs are being flexed, she is tanning
dreaming quietly that she is available, as that
in the shop, rubber doll
and maybe at one time,
although by accident
for you something,
something will come up, like the legacy
poet which wasn't a poet,
everything whatever he wrote,
not it was
poet which wasn't a poet
everything whatever he wrote, not it was
is it possible to believe, that here, is Mr eR?
if poet then again you will uncover yourself
she will cover with her small duvet
erhaps from - you live (?) will you revive?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent. Very excellent satire. It is worthwhile reading. I like it. DA