We sing and that's how

we make a very good time --


out of the waiting.

As if everything

revolves around me I see --


people flashing by.

Our cherry orchard

is full of glitter-garlands --


Do the birds party?

A flowering shrub

at the monastery gate:


butterflies greet me.

We're not together,

but write the more lovingly --


'You're so dear to me!'

It is still so new,

I'm disconcerted, sitting --


here waiting for you.

He is here, at home,

wherever he is absent --


though still known by us.

Winter evenings at

home, a faint light from outside --


faint sounds blowing by.

Well, what my age is?

I have many and waver --


Which one shall I choose?

What are her feelings

for me? Well, I could ask her --


but that is risky.

Happiness, what's that?

It has many names, little --


of them is correct.

Foreigners test us:

are we really as caring --


as we think we are?

The fluctuating

flood-mark, a boundary of --


dry seaweed flowers.

Sorry for the smell,

the fact is, I ate onions --


It's my period.

The geese: vigilant

next to their grass-green droppings --


Sated in the sun.

Party-time today,

the world turns yellow: the stars --


my heart and my love.

I like to lie on

the floor, thinking, with a book --


upon my stomach.

A friend does not beat

around the bush, she's honest --


which can be painful.

I pull the curtain

open, just to stall for time,


and study the fog.

He is cool-headed

in e-ve-ry joke he makes --


he is serious.

Heaven allures us,

a scent of higher honey --


draws us to full height.

The road has lost us,

we have left it, over there --


it's looking for us.

I escaped from my

armour, naked I feel: what --


is outside of me?

Going higher and

higher, beyond the best view --


into the cold night.

We dream of something

new, suddenly a new path --


in the well-known woods.

Green on green, the grub

eats its way to the calyx --


to change colour there.

It is a full moon,

music sounds from the café --


I'm not one of them.

The toad is looking

for water, its moist **** smells --


like warm silage grass.

The emigrants there

wear sneakers, they have a dream --


of buying real shoes.

Are journeys searches,

and the prey on which you hunt:


a refuge called Home?

The fly explores me,

tickles my arms and my hands --


It cannot be caught.

I'm sad from the rain,

without knowing: is this real --


genuine sadness?

Do as he does, stare

at him, scan his body, and --


see his discomfort.

Just to get a grip

on what's happening, I say --


out loud: nownownow.

It didn't count for much,

I know in hindsight, thanks to --


my account of it.

Take care when you dream,

not to get lost in all your --


possibilities.

Before we can no longer
seal the cracks
of windows and doors
against betrayal
we must take other risks
to preserve our dreams

Until we can no longer
dance away our common
powerlessness in love songs
with our hands and hips
and sing along with
the happiness and the longing

Then to dance with eyes and lips
and to sing along together
to drown out the sorrow
of the unwanted
farewell that we take
without saying goodbye

The apples taste like oil
the wind erases our traces
on the cracked skin
of the pale earth where
nothing flourishes and nothing thrives
It erases our contact

Storm in the city,

dashing on the brick pavement:


police on horseback.

The dog learns to bark

differently, practising --


the art of singing.

The merry-go-round

dances on its wheels, swinging --


around its axis.

Most people in love

are just not at their best when --


it really matters.

In the compartment

window, we kiss and we merge --


with the May blossoms.

Is making love a

new, skimming way to fly up --


without gravity?

You, my sweetest word,

make me human, you create --


a world inside me.

Holding and touching

each other, gently doing --


what is in our mind.

I sit in her bed,

looking at her, her body --


the promise it holds.

The roads are rounds, watch

out and avoid them if you --


look for a way out.

I'm invisible

when I read a poem, I'm --


eavesdropping on it.

A sleepy village,

the doors and shutters are closed --


Dogs barking loudly.

The gate has no bell,

no one opens when I knock --


It comes down to me.