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Crows

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Crows

Early in the morning, so prehistoric that
no life is born, in the shower standing.
Water turns to crows that fly and fall
as I appeal to a deeper sleep
and catch them on my tongue.

Walking past the flock of rain,
I am out of bounds with an opaque reality.
I wander through this field, with my
thread basket in hand,
picking black berries as dark as crows.

With every step I take, my tail grows
and I pull it through a hole in my pants.
Each meter encourages my transformation
and crows rest on my wings.

Unfortunately, for now, I am too busy
to wander such fields and collect crow berries.
The ring-ring-ringing becomes ever closer.
I try to cover my ears with dark talons
and beg the birds to answer the phone.

I can’t be bothered to do such trivial things,
more pressing matters are at hand.
My tail shrinks at the resonance of my alarm.
Day is beginning.
Eyes open, I step into the shower
and release crows.





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