white flowers shining
with the full moon,
liquid light,
a lonely frog.
fire fell from the sky,
the milk turned sour,
maybe i heard a baby cry,
now all is still.
first food, then morals,
was Brecht so right?
i only know:
this is night.
nothing to expect,
nothing to explain,
i go to sleep
like a soldier
as if there was
no tomorrow and
only the scent
of flowers was true
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