Orpheus,

I cover you up with words

and peel you,

when I take a picture of you,

I see you as a fly

that in a room

has a space for and in itself

of a thousand to the third degree

Her black hole and further living,

is door and window and draught,

a new journey.

The thereafter following life,

who knows,

will it never stop anymore,

I wait for you.

The colours are still locked,

pot and tube are still closed,

than a man brings his gift;

the colors become a sight,

layers of colours,

when in and from a women’s clothes – peacock splendour

become a canvas,

a canvas with a face,

It waits for you.

A butterfly pumps itself up to colouring light.

per day,

and when the evening comes,

he or she folds up the wings

and waits for you,

if you do come.