Fleur
Formalin
She won#t come ¨C she was torn by the dogs,
Beaten to death by the skinheads,
A crack in a treacherous ice
Her hands were not prepared to fight,
not wanting to win
I#ll be instead of her
She#s swimming in the formalin,
The imperfection of lines
Is moving slowly
I have her face, and her name
And my blue sweater#s the same,
Nobody noticed this change
She won#t come ¨C her hands were in snakepit
Her head in the wasps# nets
And her back in the ant-hill
I#m stronger than her
Deserve taking her place
I¡¯m better at so many things
She#s swimming in the formalin
Moving slowly
In the thick white fog
I have her face and her name
Nobody noticed the change
I#m checking the keys in the pocket
Perhaps I#m playing something wrong
I don#t know these people
Smiling a little strange
If they suspect that I#m not her
I don#t know what#s coming-
I#ll pretend being drunken or ill
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