This could somewhat be fun if only
you wore a white sheet over your head.
Hollow and pale, mute too, dim, dumb, numb,
you keep transparent, spectral does not even define
what you have been since the gigantic blow hit you hard.
Dry in the southern wind you breathe no more,
eerie standing behind the ironing table, an aching back,
your eyes reflect nothing but the content of the medicine cabinet
or the high-speed trains rushing by, darting fast across the land of our dreams.
These lands have become hell, the dreams nightmares; they now give us goosebumps.
You were told this morning
this house has become too wide,
too large for a phantasmagorical thing
haunting a place that has become its jail,
a trap where dreadful thoughts billow in endlessly.
You’ve finally wasted
all the lives won in this game.
You won’t make it to the end of the world.
Doubtlessly, winter will be your shroud, buds and blossoms
will have to do without your usual care and fascination next spring.