death has ten fingers over his face
waggles them according to algebraic principles
it’s a dull job a human resources stinker
he doesn’t remember how he got it
and human longing is a storm at the window
and his neighbor, birth, sings
behind the hedges old Viennese love songs
poor bastard, hands covering his eyes
hearing always the Merry Widow Waltz
Planet of the Blind 