with faulty hands and blind eyes smiling
on silent lands
tight closed mouths and clutching fingers
and yet who...
who awaits behind shut doors?
after all the tidy plans have died
when she took her last breath
and I kissed her cold forehead
everything fell down
with a splash or a clash, a sort of sound
and a pain that I'll always wear
on my heart, on my breast
under my hair
who? who will acknowledge
and scream in courage
that big plans are tiny bans
flowing strong currents
as my tears on her Snow White hands...
perfect plans aren't meant to be made