Black Hand
His black hand
on my white belly
and I can't even pronounce his name
The saxophone
keeps on playing playing
origami birds fly above my head.
I'm 15
and I miss home
but only happy letters get across the sea
If not your eyes
that saw it all
I could easily pretend it was just a dream.
Dear Anna,
It's good you don't keep in touch.
How would we talk about it now?
Autor(es): Anita Lipnicka
