The man informed, I, that does not know anything, you know, here you do not do, it’s snowing, it does not matter, turbine. I err because he knows, he cleared everything, everything smooth. I licks, sniffs, swallows white flakes, all turbine, smooth leaves, it lose the lost. I know my, dust, he feels it, he knows it. I shoveled, drizzling, it falls in the eye. I do signs, a whiteness that crumbles in the air, buzzing. He winks, I know, he had no hints. I dig, everything falls. I slide, sfavillando, in the confusion, illuminated by the certainty of ground snow cornices.
(Hans Magnus Enzensberger)