Behind the
door
an answer
is awaiting
a question
that was
not asked by me
so far,
a question
is listening
to my
breath
ask me
ask me
to the wall
behind the
door.
The days
run quietly
the tears
into a valley
behind the
door
love is
waiting
for her
call
magic
an answer
is listening
for a question
without
sense
asking
itself
breathless
powerless.
Only this
is progress
into a valley
of hope.
Behind the door
runs a
river
a wild
river
of common
opinions
into every
opened mouth
and drowns
every question
not asked
so far.
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