[ Foreign Language ]

The language / or my language/ is insufficient/

Indefinitely finite/

Incorrect and in its error rate infinite /

It´s like I say words/ form sentences/

in attempts/

to make myself seen/

though every time/ for you/

I don´t even seem/

to be in it/

 

The inability to speak my soul/ my heart/

leaves my fractured self in the dark/

for you/

and in the black corner of the room/

My form is vague/ as is my hand/

that cannot reach/

cannot reach/

you in the instant of a dazzling loom/

 

The unspeakable remains/

in the blind spot of your eye/

where the You cannot meet the I/

my souls twisted parts/

the horror of my thousand hearts/

beating in my chest/

beating me to death/

I cannot share/

cannot make you understand/

and in disregard of that/

you try your best to hold my hand/

still you are/

and ever will be/

a foreigner in my land/

who´s unable to see

 

At times you seek to capture/

me/

where I begin and where I end/

although my own notion/

runs through fingers quick like sand/

what lingers/

of the words not left unspoken/

attempts not unattempted/

is a mere sediment of your cautious, angry voice/

that begins to hate my wearing black/

my intangibility/

a voice that begins to hate all the cracks/

in my skull/

in my soul/

that let doubts and fears in just like rats/

 

and suddenly and bit by bit/

I detect in your language/ in your words/

your longing to get rid/

of those infected atoms in my matter/

the very ones I try to gather/

in my light/

to make better/

what´s to hate/

 

your words they tell/

that you yourself are well/

on the way to hate/

what I already hid too late/

 

 

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