The men
they die on me
and me
I dont know
to do
With much
dry corpse
even warm
nailed
there
in the bearing:
the curtain is
a fringe
that hides
rot.
I'm not able
to enter
at home
without kicking any.
They accumulate
like lice
from the patio
up to my forehead,
wrinkled
as a premature child.
I try to run them
delicately
to make my way
but
not always
i have the time
enough
or patience
necessary
so every so often
I pass them up
fondly
and above all
With respect,
not going to be a thing
that some
get up
and scare me to death.
Sometimes it seems
that a body moves
and then I say
in the air,
as in passing,
"Blessed are you among others,
because of you
all
lo bla blé blí bló blú
and fundamentally
your death is mine ”,
and with that
none ever ever
got up again.
When I am sad
and i think
in love and stuff
I do not understand,
it's me?
They die to me,
Doctor
What I can do?
The men
they die on me
and me pondering,
if it's my fault,
through the curtain,
or by the desire.