Leaving a trail for
the game of **** in watery eyes
for sane surrender.

*

That was a fake turn,
when you slipped from the edge
of enduring pain.

*

Like first raindrops,
I was going to wet your brows
to write my hurt poem.

Melody
Lifting the veil
From dream world,
Remembering me
Into this body
Song bird
Gently strumming
My soul
Waking me
Into this day

right at the center
of a somewhat stormy europe
my little country
     at times
     with a touch of gallows humor
struggles to maintain
the venerable illusion
that Austria remains
as we have thought for centuries
     an island of the blessed

amidst the brexit troubles
the growing voices of dull nationalists
     masking as patriots
authoritarian visions
     of „illiberal democracies“
         even at home

heart-breaking fates of refugees
     unwanted anywhere
spineless politicians
     who change positions
     according to the winds
     of not so presidential twitters

follow deniers of the climate change
     though they are sweating
     through the highest temps
     since measurements began

      etc., etc.

sometimes we may be wise
remembering poetic words of yore
like those of dear John Donne:

„No man is an island“