Where the white land is green and young
but the songs still mourn

for generations gone
in the mists of waiting

on the mountains across
where life is hard and old

where the fireplaces always burn
marmots raise their noses

by the elderly sitting there
picnicking and painting

the creeping broom and the round table
beyond the camomile fields

on the mound behind the heather walls
and the fern hedges in the narrowdale

that still are waving there on the helmets
of drowned iron soldiers

I muse about life and I eat
chocolate at the camel river

Today no mists on the hill
where once stood the Lion Fort

Up here on the hill

where grandma came so often --


times flow together.

Hospitality:

it requires attention, care --


and an open heart.

that it soon will be over

that I'm not here, not now
that I feel everything I don't want
that I feel nothing but aversion

that I fell into a sinkhole
that I might be filmed and
that I'm not recognizable, he is, so

that I have proof
that I dare to show
that I don't know who he is
that I'm afraid of what's to come
that I'm going to die painfully for the reason

that he infects me incurably, but also
that he himself will perish much worse
that he will be humiliated by everyone
that he wishes himself miles away, of misery
that he falls into a sinkhole

that it will swallow him up frightfully, yes
that it buries him alive
that it dazes him in a scary dream

that he roams in it for years
that he only after that will fall asleep exhausted
that he wakes up from his delusion again

that I stop him with love
that I receive him with love, but
that I don't get pregnant

that meanwhile, I'm thinking all
this

Where could I be lost?

There are distant sounds, maybe --


echoes of the void?

I was such a child myself, ten years old
I came to the institution, unwanted
and ignorant how

Till my brother found me
between the infants of my class
and told me how

I was 37 when I got a family
I asked them for shelter
but they didn't know how

So I stayed here and grew old
wrapped in sheets of folding paper
keeping back how

suffocating my life is
No one smooths out the folds
No one knows how

Silently I call

your name, please come, hear my need --


listen with your soul.

Lying on the ****,

you talk about the sails, I --


about happiness.

I celebrate my desires
on the templebed: doing
nothing, watching and smelling
what the priest is describing

they told me so in advance
An exercise
to relax myself in a cave
in the wild of the mountains

His words anoint my nerves
and untie them from the inside
of my entrails, they wash me
off with warm attention, recover
my muscles and my soul

I want to continue living this way
..Let it go, let it go
..that's the exercise
..my only chance
..to hold it

I'm floating on mists,

without legs: the Witch Mountain --


early at daybreak.

Again I practise

the music with my teacher --


Just by listening.

Shrubs protect the back door
muscular guards close the bolts
We live concealed in the middle
around the square of the sky

above the well in the courtyard
Sometimes a sparrow hops in my hand
All of us count down the years
We have become a woman

without the permission to be so
for everyone who kneels
before the fire of the earth
burning for the unity

of the country, the bond
of the great men
who knock the code at the back
the men we wash on the bed

in words of praise
We take off our robes
and kneel before the throne
of their hopefully infertile power

At night I enchant

you with a kiss, then we'll both --


sing for happiness.

A feather flutters,

and another! Are there birds --


that moult in winter?

People come here only occasionally
They bring money, night and day
the front doors are open
adorned with gilded carvings

I cried at the farewell
Daddy's hands on my shoulders
mama's kisses on my head
I was a chosen child

but I didn't cry for joy
I cried for all the years
I dedicate to the fire
in this temple of support

This is my fate
in a holy covenant
with the fate
of the others

After the shower,

floating around in the glass --


the candle still burns.

Keep love intact, and

pay attention to whether --


it is still breathing.

I'm just hanging
around the house
all to myself
the *** of tea, the table

the rooms of our house
with its new windows
the scratches in the cabinet
all the presents

that I gave to you
and the poster of the glistening
water on the horizon
with the shadow of a ship

I'm just hanging
around in your absence
incapable of action, so strong
and close is your presence

I stare at the flame

until it burns in my chest --


invisible there.

So, to do a lot

I get up quickly, then, I --


don't know what to do.

The woods entangle

me, I want out, I don't want --


to have to sleep here.

We haven't made any gold
and are sitting in the stench
of 50 buckets of *****

Trophies surround us
from the seven-locked cabinet
as a battery around our happiness

Tonight we borrow luxury
for a debt to the future
and we drink to bygone days

We stuff gnawed bones
into our nostrils like jewellery
and eat comfort cake with whipped cream

The party is drawing to a close
the mattresses are ready
for after the drinks bath

Everything is oh so interesting, we talk
louder and louder, listen how superbly
we imitate animal sounds

The beautiful vase

is old and porous, but still --


it's full of flowers.

Shall I ever see

you again? I'll wait for you --


in rain and in sun.

You just have to ask,

and I shall give it to you --


all my love for you.

I was young, I went

to experience grand beauty
on hands of success, and now
I walk on clouds

of electric light
glitter and admiration
celebrating my retirement

in the heaven of parties
star among the stars
the smiling beautiful people

their pearls, botultox and gel
in semi-gray hair, tireless
in time to the brass

Nobody needs to go to the toilet
we are hovering over the beds
in which despair tosses and turns

because of the days and the years
of dreamed lives, and we dance
the conga since we are going

nowhere

The music of Bach

is grief comforting people --


with touching beauty.

Exactly the same

people walk the same circles --


on the holiday.

Unavoidable

after the worship service:


a day of boredom.

On week-days, in the evenings, I pass
windows of people who know nothing:
the couple who've been kissing for ten days
and waiting people everywhere
Nowhere I find the grand beauty
I want to live for

I walk around to share my melancholy
memories of my plans and yours
We're having a good time
with pretended complacency
and we dedicate ourselves
to the sweet doing nothing

We chat and are distracted
After the first birds
I feel sad and incompetent
for the days in the bright light
the decay of our lives outside
the magic world of the night

I am old, I am

quietly watching the world --


Only now, it's mine.

War victims: people

who suffer from the sad fact --


that there is still war.

He plunges the knife

deep into her, Stop, I shout --


against my own dream.

In the last darkness
before dawn, after the party
I wander through the city
my familiar city

The sky is clear
I have no idea
what I would want

The river glides by
Empty quays, no traffic
silence around the monuments
and everything neatly swept

Naked people made
of marble and paint
live in the museum palaces

The princesses play cards
in the basement of the servants
and my steps resound
in the floodlight of time

The waiters walk in

and out of the music pops --


open and closes.

It's a party, so

drink to me, drink to my life --


drink to life itself!

Timbuktu, the moon,

the woman in the window --


tired from serving tea.

Election time: there they are
in beautiful dresses, the fairies
with their wands
aiming at my dreams

Sparkling stars
a beautiful world
is what they wish me
I get it as a gift

if I want, 'Say it'
my vote
makes the difference
but the jester laughs

and dances around the shiny dresses
He points to the wands
they mostly point to each other
the rest is advertising paper

that wraps up the problems nicely
so be careful with wishes
they come true
the way you think:

half, and inconsistent
with a bill
for others
or for later

The gilded Buddha

has a gargantuan chest --


and a heart of stone.

People look at her,

and confused they keep looking --


And she.. she loves me!

She radiates, young

in the old landscape, I look --


and kneel before her.

Is it only safe
in a cloister of cloaking
clothes and within the walls
of kitchen and children's room?

Or will you risk
being a witch
according to frightened people
who will conspire against you?

A witch who fights off
and cannot be forced
by the pitifulness of a man
or the knife of robbers

The cuts hurt
the water is cold
and the night is dark
in the mud of the riverbank

I hoped for strong daughters
and sweet sons, sensible
and helpful, but
shall I ever have them?

Yes, I fantasise

here, by the sea, about men --


wearing a good suit.

When you come back I'll

share with you my sorrow, which --


will then be over.

Do you respect your

parents when they act rashly?


'That's a trick question?'

We surrender
to our passion
and we lick the nectar
that sticks to the arousal

With whispers, sighs
moans and the shouts
that people shout
when they don't behave

but have taken off their clothes
and celebrate the love
which makes their lives special

love, licking
the nectar
each other

Wishing the joy one

more time, even if it’s no --


longer possible.

The promised city

for beggars: there are no roads --


leading there at all.

In the fake village

where no one lives, the garbage --


truck comes every week.

Dive into this sea
rustle just like me!
Fumy foamy me
sloshing surging we
jingle jangle jee
fringle frangle free!

Flipper flopper flee
widdle waddle wee
sweeter tweeter tea
swopper sweeper ***
dive into this sea
rustle just like me!