there was a man in the hospital yard
piles of bitter words
flowing by the corners of his mouth
like downpour in the trough

I wasn’t sure
if I saw the future or the past
on his face the years left uncertain prints
words wounding
like a hoe slowly pulling potatoes from their nest
„it’s not true that a sword
doesn’t cut off a bent head”

I remembered that the fool on the hill
knows better how the sun sets
while I cry
that mom killed my Norwegian snowdrops
and my sweet singing budgie
without being able to say why
without being allowed to say something
about the man haunting any alley
with his head bent down