Seven days for me are two.
On the first day I work.
On the second day I am mute.
In April I always feel weak.
Words don't flow inside me.
In April I am all scattered and squeaky.
A small list of wishes was made,
in a bowl of water drowned.
Slow, watery magic leads me into the crowd.
In the crowd
berries from beans
are being separated
so loudly and violently
that I am not able to talk.
At the circus I sit in the back row,
repeatedly murmuring all that I've locked
but they can't hear,
there's a freaks' show going on.
Mirrors break, lions roar,
there is fire and there are corn dogs,
bearded women and dwarfs.
On a bleak, April's day,
I sit in a back row and observe the freaks' show.
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