Buty
slimak
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To the white morning, to the fresh air, to the hot summer, to the cold winter. as if it wanted
into absolutely everything.
Into a dry leaf,
into old wood,
into thick rust,
into hot sand,
into the cold of water,
to the won stone,
to the stone mine,
to the other end.
To the stone mine,
to the other end,
to the stone down,
and to the other end
Perhaps there lived
an old snail,
who has instead of a house
my own head.