At dawn, I go up on my mountains
and I sit on a stone
Stray fingers groping at the
What have I done, of all days
Where should I stay,
with a child to give roots to the
I hear the bear behind my back,
big and heavy
She is brown and we have seen the past
the Framework fathoms me and
the claws cut into my flesh,
Drag me by the hair, piece of me
in the head
so the juice runs out
Together we can
cleave me in the midst,
I want to have it done
the Round bear, great tracks
go back to the klyftans bed
I will go further this way
You are not human
and good, it is
Keep to your sun
I have no ide
out in
but the hand sniffs
Ten little fingers
as the father in the world,
plait the me on
do I Need to die
reborn
Must the world
really wiped out first.
renewed
Time, arise in me
in the body, as they age,
with the scars of a birth
and the dog I’m scared
that cut in my arm
once on the earth,
which is also aging
the Air is cold
I feel how the ground,
when it thawed again
the pacific to develop
art after art,
as if it read
a great story
the Figures
carved in sand and ice
and that can only be solved
from someone’s internal
Man,
and through us the language
to the earth to speak
Think and speak the
the time is
before the glesnat
so much so that it
disperse
I put my hand in my pocket
and touch the seven of diamonds
someone gave me yesterday
I want to dig them down
but the ground is hard
do not Search treatment
in the poem, the says the bear
search the world
But not the
in each other, I will answer
they are not in each other
When the bells are struck
I’ll also listen for
my dead siblings
For that I once read
to the past
the thought that the barrier
among the living
and the dead burst
on new year’s eve,
then the time has been suspended
and can start
I think not
on the transmigration,
I is not linked
I believe in care
and it care create
Those who have not yet been born
but to continue here
no power
If no one gives them
the power
– imagine
to them
the Trees thickens
down the slope, when I
will receive them
There is a
great tit on the branch
and look me in the eyes,
as with anyone’s glance
Below the forest
the roads
whose beginning and end
I can’t see
And maybe
also the end
that is beautiful,
now, if it is an end
I go in
Might hear
already at the beginning of the year
of poetry