-- for lit-ideas
Dead bureaucrats sailors
Dead poets teachers
Oh how I have suffered for this poem
The voices will never stop
Dispose of your objects you say
Dead fishermen scholars
I can only write how I write
My child is hanging from a tree
I put him there
Don't look at me now
While I eat the evidence
Dead people's voices speak through me
Every sentence is a betrayal
I dream what I dream
- phatic
(traslated from hisself)
