How long have I trample, It can be seen on the heel.
Cobweb same finger not shirk chela.
Then in a loud nice doodle,
that sounds like yesterday.
But dark thoughts do not really fix,
both on the forehead fallen askew strand.
And it does not dream of anything, to be less,
less likely to come true, do not litter
time. Beggar quarter window
eye CORN, to, in its turn,
face remember tenant, but not
how he thinks, conversely.
And the room exactly shaman circling,
I wind, like a ball,
over its emptiness, that the soul
I knew something, that God knows.
1980 – 1987