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In the waiting room
of these closed eyes
there is a flower tied
to a very, very long string.
In the waiting room
of this breathless autumn,
each face is the cross
of a shepherd without a flock.
They pass by here, they want to forget
their status as puppets;
one more artist at the Patience Festival.
In the waiting rooms
of interviews and heart attacks,
of absent stations,
no one is from anywhere.
They pass by here, they want to forget
their status as puppets:
one more artist at the Festival of Patience.
They pass by here, they are going to auction
calm, control and sleepless nights.
They can't leave, no one wants to enter;
there is no round trip.
In the waiting room
there are no longer chairs or benches.
There are only urgent voices,
no one sits and waits.
They pass by here, they are going to auction
calm, control and sleepless nights;
another artist at the Patience Festival.
They pass by here, they want to remember
how and why they saw themselves in this.
They can't leave, no one wants to enter;
There is no round trip.