.morda nam bodo oblaki- rjuhe edine odeje.
Pala na roke, obleke, prva, druga bo kaplja,
v noc cez mocvirno poseko zakricala bo caplja.
Trsi spiral bo lica, mocil nam usta s krpo,
noc nam bo z mrzlim nozem rezala crnega kruha.
Svoje misli tehtali bomo kot prhle veje,.
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