Does Y=yogurt Taylor Soft Serve

Enrique Lihn

Now that maybe in a year of quiet,

think: poetry helped me to this:

could not be happy, that I was denied, but

wrote

wrote: I was the victim

of begging and pride mixed

also

and executed a few readers;

hand held out doors than ever, I have never seen;

a girl fell in another world at my feet.

But I wrote: I had this strange certainty,

the illusion of having the world in his hands

- what more perfect illusion! as a Baroque Christ with all his

unnecessary cruelty.

wrote, my writing was like weeds flower

unleavened but flowers in short,

the daily bread of uncultivated land:

a shell of thorns and roots.

life take these words as a child

glitter, pebbles by the river:

magic things in a perfectly useless

but you always come back to renew their charm.

The kind of madness with an old flying

after pigeons

imitating them was given to me instead of being used for something.

writing I condemned all

doubted my real existence

(days of my writing, solar abroad.)

all who served and those who were served

will say that because I wrote it

and death means working closely

, steal a few secrets.

Originally, the river is a vein of water

-there, for a moment, even in this high-

then at the end, a sea that no one sees

of those Brace life.

Because I wrote I hate embarrassing, but the sea

part of my writing itself:

the surf line in a verse I

foam I can reiterate poetry.

I was sick, no doubt

and not just insomnia,

also fixed ideas that made me read

with obscene attention to a few psychologists,

but I wrote and crime was lower,

paid him to write verse by verse,

because a word that fits into the abyss

comes a little intelligence

dark and light that many monsters are not executed.

Because I was not home wrote executioner

and I got carried away by the love of God and accepted

men

were gods did not want me as a clerk or poverty

seemed outrageous

or power

a desirable thing and washed my hands and I fouled

or my best friends were virgins or had

as Friend

a Pharisee or anger despite

wanted to disrupt my enemy.

But I wrote and I'm on my own,

because I wrote because I wrote I am alive. Sigrid