Excerpt:
The forest hums. My snout takes aim. I sing before I shoot.

H2: Overture – The Nose as Rifle

I was born in a bar of Weber’s overture,
a tremolo between forest and fear.
My snout — no longer nose,
but flintlock, breath turned ballistic.
I load it with vowels and consonants:
BÄM! goes the bass note.
Oink in D minor.

Ich bin der Freischnauz,
the hunter hunted by his own geometry.

H3: Aria of the Aiming Pig

In the clearing I see destiny —
a reflection shaped like sound.
Trees bow to the rhythm,
the moon adjusts her spotlight.
I inhale a melody,
exhale a myth.
Each breath hits something sacred.

H2: Dialogue mit der Dunkelheit

Darkness: You play dangerously well.
Pig: I rehearse in instinct.
Darkness: Your weapon is ridiculous.
Pig: My weapon is voice.
And so the duel begins:
pig against echo,
tone against target,
art against accuracy.

H3: Finale – The Oink of Fate

The shot rings out —
not in lead,
but in laughter.
The forest applauds.
The moon takes a bow.
I holster my snout and whisper:
“Art hits harder than bullets.”