one day a poet came to me he wrote a long text on my back – I was murmuring once in a while yes no yes no he was writing incessantly passionately painfully rebelliously

he has never read to me from that parchment before he left with his torn out feathers without any words abandoning me in a search of mirrors where to descipher its meaning like Arabians

one whole day was not enough for me to reach its end and by night the silver of forgetfulness was overwhelming me – I was twisting myself to the left and to the right targeting my backbone my ribs

the black moon was swinging up and down indifferent to trifling misunderstandings

one other day when I still had no clue about the text another poet came to me and read it aloud – this time I remained utterly silent because it spoke of love