“The scent of your light
envelopes all over and
spirits me away from here.”

“And thus, I go with
you; the sound of your shadow
snatches me in this half light.”

Recently you descried that
The hands of mine were
Full of crimson scars,
Like the beads of a rosary.
”What are these wounds
On your palm?” you asked.
”Were they caused by
The elisabethian roses of your garden?”
I said nothing, just (but) smiled blushingly,
But then later, while you fell asleep,
I leaned closely and whispered
My secret in your ears:
„In fact, all of these are
Stigmata of our love.
But possessing them makes me happy;
I wear them proudly.”

Under the sour light
of the summer moon, when the
asphalt maze exhales

heatness we come and
ensemble at Teufelsberg
just to pile up the

broken and rusty
pieces of our outcasted
heart, hoping that if

we exchange them like
puzzles of the autumn we
will able to build new ones.

It felt better when
I believed: that the cat in
the box still had the

chance. And now the box
is open and I hate to
be aware of the

scientific fact
that the cat is no more; she
did not manage to

survive the cruel
experiment. I hated
for I learned: she was Love.

I wish I could be
there and wade through the blue with
you to wind your spring.

We almost danced,
but in the end we faked
the pas with stumbling.

Your genesis I
need: the very first words of
the story of me,

I yearn for you to
put me down into words and
say: "Shall we begin?"