I pray to that dead
criminal Jesus - to set
us right - restore us.
We're a mess - like
spilled salt - remember the
fresh air of freedom?
In dreams I search - there
must be a cure lying
around somewhere..
Eyelid shades
open on chiaroscuro
lit, moody mornings.
I keep my head down
I'm doing my fey best, to
let nothing touch me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem