To write a poem
without preparation,
without really thinking
about it.
It is sheer madness,
or, perhaps,
it is
what underpins all poems
in this world.
I don't know.
And it doesn't really matter.
And no one will have to listen
to me.
Or to even pay attention.
What is a fellow
supposed to do
if the whole world
thinks differently,
and if the whole world
and if the whole world
distances itself.

Is a fellow allowed to dream
and to believe in his
own dreams?
What if he wants to
smash up
the universe
to be able
to be with her?
What if he needs to
change the order of things?

Will he really,
truly, honestly,
have to wait for
the next course?

Do sad eyes count enough?

Yes, I am not
in any dumps.
On the contrary.
Just had a question or two.

A hungry duck
will fly.
Unless he does
clip his own wings.

No duck will do that for
any reason other than

by Herbert Nehrlich

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