(04 October 1943 / Germany)


It strikes me, suddenly,
a stem cell of surprise.
So will you play, new friend
or stick to the demise
that has been scripted then?

I may regret to say I will not need
the helping hand you do unfold
there, on the public square for me
it's only pride that guides me now,
a silly gallery of puppets on a string,
perhaps they would at that, believe
how I could be the spirit of the catacomb,
each side a bat's transparence of a wing
without the promise of an afterlife's reprieve.

Yes, it is I who sucks the marrow of the beast,
until the echo of its hollowness cries out.
But will you come to me and hold my little hand
I'm only little, just an image, but not stout.

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