Will you say a round sentence,
will you write a wise book,
you’ll always be in your head
the same emptiness and silence.
The word is a cold breez
esudden wind in space;
maybe it will refresh you,
but nowhere will help.
You may be deceived by the crowd that is dragging the streets,
vodka in the park drank or sunset,
but remember: nothing really happens
and nothing will happen – until the end.
Will you say a round sentence,
will you write a wise book,
you’ll always be in your head
the same emptiness and silence.
Trust only the lip tangles,
incomprehensible gibberish,
gestures in a vacuum hung,
imperfect.
You may be deceived by the crowd that is dragging the streets,
vodka in the park drank or sunset,
but remember: nothing really happens
and nothing will happen – until the end.
Tylko fotografia 