Will, after the war,

our hearts still be awaiting --


us at home, sweet home?

Can't you let me dance

in the street, to the music --


I like to dream of?

I just shouldn't always

have to do the usual --


things that don't matter.

Don't ever leave me,

if you do so anyway --


please, let me find you.

Aren't all romances

a huge explosion of dreams --


and dearest desires?

There is a boulder

in the middle of the road --


there is a boulder.

Read, and realise:

it is also about you --


this past history.

To really see things

you have to look carefully --


slightly beside them.

The beauty of art

and the world does not exist --


if you reject it.

Thinking of the past

I still remember a lot --


Much more than I knew.

The little cottage

transforms me when I enter --


into a giant.

Stay a child, then you

can fall asleep like a prince --


on a stranger's lap.

The hall is sold out,

because we always remove --


superfluous chairs.

Being intimate

with people means having to --


share in their secrets.

I whisper courage

to myself and cross my arms --


Lullalullaby.

His beautiful voice!

Could he perhaps be gargling --


honey every day?

Are, these days, men's skirts

like kilt, sarong and lungi --


called 'legless clothing'?

It is arduous

to carry him, he's heavy --


with his phantom limb.

He sings wistfully

about a sheep, cow or goat --


sunk into the peat.

A lot of wisdom,

as the harvest of my life?


Nah, I know better.

A sledgehammer kills,

or it may loosen a thought,


something from the past.

We keep racing down,

and from what we hear the van --


has lost its exhaust.

I'm disappointed,

nevertheless, as always --


I count my blessings.

Are there aliens

inside the clouds? Who is there --


rummaging about?

I sing, cautiously,

just to myself, still without --


anyone hearing.

Seven bridges, that

is an odd number, so how --


do I set a route?

Is it easier

to acquire knowledge than to --


do away with it?

To my arms rushes

the happiness of her eyes --


straight into my heart.

I chose the wrong cake,

and then it started: the Great --


Cardamom Quarrel.

All the little shutters opened up
feeling what is going on
in the twilight
within me

not fantasizing
feeling what is going on
outside, over there, a farewell
their arms around each other

and all the way long
my legs are tired
from the runner who smiles
at the happy woman

tears in my eyes
over the baby in her pram
it is getting dark
my window a mirror

in which my preliminary self
asks for love
for my marriage
under construction

and for my body
oh mirror image
I love you
I do what I can

In the evening we

rest and cautiously express --


our sincere feelings.

Under the night filter
I lie awake
in hibernation

the blossoms on my skin
dusky grey, luckily
I think that, still can think

something, that's all
and the itching continues
to plague me in my head

where I can't reach it
I can only wait
until it is dissolved

and I feel again
like having cake, luckily
I can bake it myself

when I have the energy
and my thoughts
find the words again

While I am musing

the sun hesitates to rise --


and it's getting dark.

The storm growls and howls

through splits in the hollow wall --


like a house *****.

Souls are colourless,

black and white the setups that --


separate people.

The trees in winter:

no pigeons, no bullfinches --


the nests breaking down.

What we humans are

is nothing, what we desire --


is all that matters.

The dinner table

is stylishly set, spotless --


Sorry, except me.

A violinist

lightly strokes the sheep gut with --


tightly stretched horsehair.

She doesn't recognise

what I feel: 'Now try to find --


your deeper feeling!'

The sentimental

people chat to explore their --


growing consciousness.

As a child I felt:

there is a secret in me --


big, for the whole world.

Suddenly I know

the secret hidden in me --


and I speak it out.

If only you could

take hold of the world and shake --


the whole into place...

Ah, I would like to

educate my enemies --


And my friends as well.

Politicians drift,

because The Majority --


doesn't know what they want.

Ambition is: not

valuing yourself enough --


It is a defect.

In between I look

into the garden, hoping --


we'll be silent now.

Tell me, what do they

know, the nationalists,


of their own country?

Thirty-six years, my

youth is only just starting --


yeah, to release me!