Hoarfrost; the earth crackles
Stars low and aloft
Forward!
Animals. Aim and fire.
Moaning.
Bike creaks along the path.
Tribes nearby.
It is illusion: no men are living.
All things always disconnected.
The others are dead or gone astray,
Fools. Or they’re asleep.
No one stands exactly there, where I stand.
To love death!
Silence!
Hans Paasche
