They paddle with soul-stethoscope.
In the lack of wood, they knock on
carton, on metal, on window
or on anything else.
They knock by habit,
because of an unknown,
namely by a superstition that
you can never get to know.
By freit they bet on success.
Thanks for it they cannot say to anyone.
In no one, only in themselves they trust.
They trust, because their world will crash over.
From an impersonal force how
they can expect: does it deal
personally only with them?
It’s like a silhouette
of Shakespeare
who scratch old rhymes:
„He wears his faith but
as the fashion of his hat.”
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