What are we?

Where are we?

This autumn

When smoke and ashes

Covers the earth

Soon snow will cover

This land,

but the winter

Will not be like


The silence is like a drum

Making a lot of noise

But not being heard

Still very present

When in action

It is very worrying

The ground is unstable

And every step I move

I risk falling in

Trying to keep my

Conscious awake

So at least something will remain


The gray dag has ni color

No feeling

Just hopelessness and helplessness

The road is lost in the distance

Between here and then maybe

I wish it had been more easy

But that is never the case

And when I meet the old ladies

On the subway and in the shop

I can be certain

That it is all to late

The Night

The night is so cold

Even the cloud

Has abandon us

The stars, distant and cold

Are not even


God is busy

Somewhere else

I want to give in

I want to give up

I am cold

But I am

Still standing

Nights in the office

I am feeling lonely and that is OK

No one will understand my words

My words so empty and void

Trying to put the assignment given to me



I do not know

Just writing through the night

Dreaming of my car driving

Too fast in the main street

While others car parked

In the middle of the road

Waiting idle

But where am I going?

Wednesday morning

The street had the usual colors, gray, black tarmac and dirty brown plaster. The usual copy and paste buildings from the drawing board of long dead architects in art noveau  style. The strait pompous street was oversized made for parades, tanks and trams (none of them present at the moment). Instead the steps of thousends of people and hushed conversation filled the air. The sunshine were dimmed by smoke from people making fire at to keep warm during the freezing  night. The street itself had potholes and some of the facades were missing. It was then I saw the boy, he could have been maybe seven, his black eyes starred out on the street with fear while he was hugging what must have been his grandmother and would not let her go.  Later that day the grenades would fall again on the pompous street and some more people would die.


Cold and naked in the rain

All these people watching

Our shame, our frustration

The spectator are not the hero of the day

A perverted form of entertainment to see

Other people being humiliated

I do not want to be that sad child


That role is not for me

My role is more to watch

The leaf changing color

In the late autumn