No more bicycles:
with the tram
No more trams:
on roller skates
until they break
On clogs
until raids close everything

No more electricity
No more candles
No more stolen oil
No more charcoal
No more trees
No more books
only the clothes on one's back

No more bread:
grinding wheat
in the coffee grinder
No more wheat:
cooking rye grains
No more rye:
begging tours

No more winter coats:
worn coats made of blankets
curtains on the beds
A cold house, hunger
and fear, and time
that stands still
at hope

I lowered myself

into the round pit, covered --


with flowering thyme.

Until it gets dark,

grandma's sitting-room is ours --


the armchair our bed.

You're missing something,

so we wait, impatiently --


you break off your search.

On your birthday you

pretend that everyone is --


doing the right thing.

Love is never a wall
covered inside
with cushions and a view
of barbed wire

Love is never a wall
around concealed wishes
a weak spot, a secret
shame or a holy duty

Love is climbing over walls
without solutions
never dislodged drunk
with faith, hope, or dreams

Love is not suspicious
desperate or unimaginative
and other symptoms
of death

You are beautiful,

like all the other people --


I get to know well.