Deceased dreams flutter along the path of scattering white petals
as this washed-out spring broods uncertain beginnings.
Stomach pains announce the morning; but there is no mourning
for the devil in the wall. Again, new things.
Only death does not change, the old friend lurking
protectively in the shadows behind me,
to catch me when the flimsy safety net of loans and false friends
collapses under the weight of prejudices and flaws
collecting dust beneath the skeletons of the future.
The deceived princess held up a sign -
hoping that the usurping king will read it? -
„I want a future”, in sketchy, rushed letters.
A picture of a past me, it seemed. I used to want a future too.
Now? I could not be gladder to have the present,
with a high concentration of black cats in the house
and a sleek new machine that gives me a voice.