Ballad of the Washed Hair

The stones on the mountain are always
awake and white.
In the dark town, angels on duty
are changing shifts.
A girl who has washed her hair
asks the hard world, as if it were Samson,
where is it weak, what is its secret.
A girl who has washed her hair
puts new clouds on her head.
The scent of her drying hair is
prophesying in the streets and among stars.
The nervous air between the night trees
starts to relax.
The thick telephone book of world history
closes.

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