To be accompanied by
Tuxedomoon – soma

I’ll not say any more –
I miss you.
It’s as threadbare
as sadness
that we exchanged instead of rings
and I’m sleepy.
It is a village.
Huts still remain here
and rain too
and some smoke
(inhaling of dying fireplace)
and we stayed here,
as city
chewed us like tobacco and spat us out –
our broken words ache us on a muddy asphalt
and to come to each-other
we lean on eyes as on crutch again.
And the rain remained,
the rain – in the huts,
and there, nearby,
in the huts of spring rain –
old moon came by.
Now we are getting wet by the moon again
and I repeat:
Coming of spring bares these dry trees,
Trees stand in winter as in paradise,
Trees stand in winter as in paradise,
Coming of spring bares these dry trees,
and dry trees are shy of green eyes again
and I miss you,
I’ll tell you no more
because it’s already weird
as the ring
that we exchanged instead of thoughts
and it makes me laugh,
it makes me laugh,
because, maybe, it’s we who became weird
and yesterday,
in the end of afternoon
I was throwing night on the white coffin of your mother
and in the motley coffin of your father
hungry earthworm woke up
and stole past into the white coffin of your mother.