The Comb
The Comb


Lifted from the shelf,
With fingers having long nails;
I penetrate through the thick, black forest
Onto the fair, pale ground;
Which I sweep of white dirt,
With the forest smelling of a new fragrance.
I rustle in it,
I feel like a monkey hanging on the
prop roots;
With no ground underneath me,
Where once more the journey starts;
After a sky walk with the fingers with long nails.
I help the fingers to cover the scars,
And to entangle the black threads;
Till the ends get diverted,
Lifted from the shelf;
I am the COMB.