המתת השור

dandling on the shreads of the heart
there was a mocking bird
singing rivers of prison sounds
mouth open
in the dark in the night
listening there for which a voice
for which an air
for the sound of drizzling cry
coming down there
from the sight of space

singing singing
loudly
sometimes in a murmure
the mocking bird was enchanting
in a realm that naught did already conquer
until one day
a shadow passed by
it took the dandling branch
a grip at first not tight
after all, it was sitting there
singing singing
enchanting from noise
unecessary
anymore
and a bow it became\
streaching the stiffened heart

to kill the mocking bird
the hand did release
and up and up in the air
in place of gliding down
did the mocking bird
naught underneath
drizzling of the air
all covered still in the morning dew
did rise