At the end of the year, I beg the Great Hunter for
grace. Riding through his dark woods, he doesn’t
stop watching us. He knows how in secret cellars
we practice writing with Chinese ink. He hears the
scratching of the pens, he sees how we splash in
all directions. The numbers on the walls are peeling
off, fives become sixes, underneath the sevens eights
are waiting. He sees how we lick our wounds, our bare
shoulders after the pricking are meant to support.
The wolves hiding behind the hedges besiege us with
lost fairy tales about freedom-happiness. They fear
the hunter most, because they know that in the end
all masks will drop.