As he stepped
Into the puddle
He thought: I should make it double -
And jumped a second time.

Wet drops soaked
His trouser legs;
Smiling then, he dropped his specs
To see without reflection.

If you had flipped this upside down
A scene would have emerged
Where waterfalls began to drown
His feet, his pants, his heart.

And watercolors soak the page now,
The puddle empty, dry.
And He only a mess of paint,
The painter whistling: My, oh my.

Sudden strikes of swollen thunder
Hit the air and cure the silence
Of a long forgotten wonder
Lingering within this house.

Crows and leaves surround the tower
Circling in moving halos
And I hear the golden hour
Calling for the final act.

So I open up the gate
For the rush of air to enter
Out of grey-white, misty shade
Into this world of broken laughter.

With a cracking noise the glass
Smashes and is torn apart
Wind has formed a hurling mass
Blowing out remaining light.

For a moment in the dark
Nothing is but pounding rain
And I ask my beating heart;
Do you fear –
Do you fear the coming pain?

Deep,
Deep,
And even deeper
On the very ground of the ground of this poem
Lies a word
That won’t come out.

And maybe,
Yes, maybe
It feels good where it lies,
Surrounded by those little letters and signs,
Unwilling to leave it alone.

So nobody ever will guess
What became of the word,
And if it had altered
Throughout the times;

Or if its lonesomeness,
Along with the fact that it rhymes,
Was not so bad
after all.

A tall man is walking
Across the bridge at the river.
If I look very hard
I can see his hands quiver.

He is a poet
And popular, too,
For the men of the village
Claim it to be true.

But today he is moving
With a crooked pace,
His limbs slightly distant
Searching his trace.

Approaching the poet
I hurry to find
The skinny figure
With a beautiful mind.

As my lips part to speak,
His finger flies to my mouth,
Sealing the gap
So no sound would come out.

And his rickety hands
Shape figures above
Of great clearness and passion
For me to set off.

And I see for the first time
How fed up he is
With the weight of those words
- How genuine is this?

As easy as the wind can make
The leaves shake,
So am I able to conjure up the image of your face
In my head.
And all the time, too.

Nothing in-visible to me,
Nothing you do goes unnoticed
But will always be accompanied by
a little counter movement,
A tiny expression on my face.

Clapping and smiling
They will tear me to pieces,
Outraged and amused,
They will knock me down.

I am a new member,
So please be soft on me.
Have mercy, my people,
You see what I cannot.

Hours go by, not unnoticed but silent.
I sit in the snow,
Counting the scars and how violent
They had been.

Slowly the melting water soaks
My coat and my bones.
And the turning pages do not make me frown any longer.

Dropping from my face,
Not a single tear but water.
And, tying my shoe lace,
I get up for the last time.