forefathers´ weaknesses
boil in shallow ditches
on low grounds waits
man with a cape of frost
in here the bad deeds
pile up as hills
on the left you can see
the field of disappointment
on the horizon
making scary noises
the crows of bad omens
fly the wrong way
under us you can see
a swamp-like formation
of malignant tumors
that weren´t found in time
every night someone moves
all the clocks forward
the sun always sets
when we try to wake up
no escape from here
no road out of here
no migrating bird
makes a stop anywhere near
no one entering here
walks without trembling
no one even dreams of
the hands of gentle fathers´

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