On the walls of the weir
I drill my gaze into the riverbanks
to live an everlasting second amidst
The croaking toads that fill the swamps with sound,
Where the black trunks of dead trees,
like corpses among the reeds.
Hungry, desperately craving for touch,
Yearning for a strangers voice to break the silence,
because my own voice sounds so odd at times,
I hope that the first person who ever said:
"He travels the fastest who travels alone.",
made some friends along the way.