Author Ingeborg Bachmann Each and every thing cuts wounds, and neither of us has forgiven the other. Hurting like you and hurtful, I lived towards you. Every touch augments the pure, the spiritual touch; we experience it as we age, turned into coldest silence. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments