Blesok no. 88, January-February, 2013
After the Rain
I knew the good and the bad kinds of shadow,
the shapeless shadow of dreams in which theologians
argue about splitting hairs, and the shadow
cast by fish and busy flies.
My grandfather mixed shadow in with grain,
so something would grow that was not in vain
and the chaff would not separate from the wheat.
And once I saw the shadows of birds that
hung like sheep's wool on a bush.
From today even my sleep casts a shadow
into a world without light.
Heavy clouds in a September sky
and the ground stretches to take them in,
the houses straighten up, a sycamore
heavy with night, opens its hands,
and the brackish stream, only now
dragging along like a prisoner,
murmurs to itself in the morning,
Then the quiet, and time is inside me
and dreams the dreams of the dead,
with respect for the life that runs aground.
So it was that the truth found its way by mistake
Into my house, erased the scribble,
and eased the pain for a good hour,
then made its residence on the heap of wreckage
that the night had left behind for me.
Only the cats refuse to be fooled.
They creep in and out as if the house
too lay in ruins.
Someone came slowly towards me,
hat over his forehead,
hand shading his eyes,
an off-duty poet.
On his T-shirt the words:
I speak the language of Paradise.
He walked right through me
and took the last train,
the one meant for me.
No idea, what became
of me. Of the truth
we know only the lousy lesson.
After the Rain
A dog drags a trembling life
across the street, a kid carries his god
in a plastic bag under his jacket,
The crows want to be theologians once again.
After the rain the world becomes other
The river is rolling towards me,
shouting so loud that I will go under.
A storm, they say, waits in the books.
We will read them after the rain,
if there is to be any After-the-Rain.
When childhood came to an end
wonder was finished too.
I stood, surely only yesterday,
at the field's edge where poppy
and camomile told me fables,
I stared with my hand over my eyes
after the setting sun.
In the lime tree, older than war
and older than peace,
hung the Bürgermeister, listening,
head down, to the bees.
He had not meant it to be like this.