i've cut into pieces the last moment in the picture
of your mother's birthday, i made the cake,
and the candles were lit by my will,
i was responsible for the joy and food,
which she ate, then turned to me
and said in a loud voice: well
you are a nice girl, your jacket
and skirt fit my taste, but your legs
are not strong enough to run.
what did she mean? after that
we had a long conversation
and then i understood:
i am the one who does tricks,
but doesn't have audience,
i am in a dark night now, childhood,
it's too late to go home, so i run,
with my heart faster than me
or any shadow behind the trees,
or fairytales in the middle of the story,
where the witch locks up the princess,
and the last page is ripped out.