Nanna’s Lied/Kurt Weill/Bertolt Brecht


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Kein Betreff. Zgia


white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white on paper scribbling a few lines that do not show a blind finger tip might be able to follow the incision of mind into the flat surface of lukewarm snow drink up the words swallow the wicked ways of sense and serendipidy let’s clink our fore heads and kiss that bit of air left between our cups of lips when i look back onto the path i’ve beaten until i coughed up these words i can see a white line as thin as air as random as smoke a tight tether around my neck can feel the pull in my heart but yet written in my own hand white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and white and cloudy on the blue valley of horizon that shingle of day time and again and again and a

Identity Card. Mahmoud Darwish


Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?
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