MORGANA IN THE MEDOW

I touch my snow plants
I fly over your anxieties
they pour out love on my limbs
and they fret to make me die
I wish you wouldn't look at me rapt
but become practical for a moment
you can't tell me to treasure
do what you want
I need to feel guided
from your fantasy of a woman who knows
back to a drunken time
of your soft skin
when I was willing for your precious smile
to give up the best part of me
when for your eyes of nothing
I was dragging along idiot and tired
when for all people
I was a loner
holy acrobat
for never asking you for anything
that went beyond your dimension
catastrophic and ridiculous at the same time
of a rich girl, a respectable girl
now my vein has run out
I swear I do not dare to speak
to make you feel bad a moment for good
to make you understand to be able to love
I asked my hitmen for money
I asked on my knees for a month's time
I have kept my promises and still
of your infidelity I am a monastic temple
I would never be able to continue
to still pretend to be a merchant of boredom
it is sold by weight or by the square meter
in my soul he is a true lacer
I'm still willing to do one thing love
old young vamp
to paint your myth of glory
to the hidden altar of cowardice
to console me by observing the image
of your dizzying hair
of the holy bibles of your womb
that I have too often confused with God.

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