Autumn

The crow flies it circles
over the wide reaped field.
Man
with arms wide open
stands there
waiting.
The crow flies it circles.
Man
turns around
on the field
turns around
waiting.
The crow flies away.
Man stands despairing
silence
sinks to the ground
waiting
nobody comes.
The crow isn‘t there any longer.
Man
cowers
cold
comes up
from the ground
to the heart
of the man.
The crow comes back
to the man.
The sky turns
black
white
turns the face.
The crow waits
man
goes with it.


November 2000

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