(04 October 1943 / Germany)


Like the poet who wrote
that he ran out
of inspiration,
of words.
And he asked the Gods,
would they, perhaps
give it back to him,
this thing
that allowed him
to talk to people.
And be heard.

The Gods had mercy.
He's back,
and forgetting his humbleness.

I knew he would
be twice okay.
And that his cry was more
a song of empty feelings.

So, he won't miss me
or my words,
I may have
defied the Gods.

So said the devil
when he
burned my paper
and poured
all my ink
into the fire.

'You done' he said.

Perhaps I am.

by Herbert Nehrlich

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