It's drizzling.
The time has turned
into a furtive, soft,
deadly whisper.
It's drizzling.
White bear feet of death
are running across black,
damp ground.
It's drizzling
on a fairy-tale marketplace.
There's my shadow
hanging on a tree
near a stall selling belief.
It's drizzling
and my naked shadow
drenched with rain
is swinging on a bare branch.
The night is long and blind.
It's drizzling.
The market place is quiet
and the belief-stall is dark.
I wish I didn't have to speak
I wish I didn't have to listen.
Feeling is a curse of perception.
The fairy-tale marketplace
has covered its face
with both hands.