I write on the weary folds of my face telling my disappointment to the increasingly dry river which circles around the ribs of our city. like a vein allowing the blood to flow lazily to the corners of your body. each leaf falling and mist rising sings of my disappointment in the passing restless days. the ticking columns paint the passion of the grass and the anger of the silent stones.
I write my letter, it has no address other than my longing. the ragged years enchain the journey of a heart which knows no love. time's shriveled shell breaks and scatters. new days covered with moss rise on the barren plain.
I write this letter on the bright sky above the curve of the road crossing empty space. rows of prams and coffins hurry past searching for names and addresses.
I will never send it to anyone . . .
Parkhotel am Taunus, October 2008
Read Dorothea Rosa Herliany's “Well is Someone's Home”