Sunday, October 11, 2015

Herta Muller


 These days I don’t think of youBut after the soot covers me.
begin to wonder where those Evenings have gone, those wanderings
In the spacious lawns of enchantment That smacked of no design,
though We were bent on making a sense The early birds get their worms
lie in the tireless ticking of my old watch Counting the bits of frozen blood,
Listening to the worms That are in all of us Then I begin to crawl towards
the womb That threw me off a long way back And look for the dark,
 the black hole To suck me up.

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