The little ticket

is still there, if it didn't drop --


when I felt for it.

The longer you live,

the less you care about it --


what you think of it.

The lunar orbit,

the decline of my body:


it all goes slowly.

The magic sword can't

be pulled free by focusing --


on the mossy stone.

The majority

will want to live frugally --


when it is too late.

The man drove so fast

that he was first to arrive --


at his accident.

The many years lived

make me crooked, I subside --


sink into my roots.

The melancholy

that it's true, the earth is small --


but our soul is not.

The merry-go-round

dances on its wheels, swinging --


around its axis.

It attacks me at night
a vague, milky-white sense
that spins around in my dream
like a tornado around my house

swirling memories
keep me awake, centuries
of wisdom flow through me
not to be lost

In the morning I ponder
rocking on the porch
there is truth cracking
in the wood, it starts

to sing like heavenly harps
a Milky Wind in my head
that throws everything open
blowing down my house
in front of me

The minaret sticks

accusingly in our house --


its shadow finger.

The minister has

a large first-aid kit with him --


He knows the devil.

The monk is thinking

about the numerous forms --


of lack of knowledge.

The monk sews, he pulls,

pulls the thread through the fabric --


No knot at the end.

The moon draws an arc

through the lonely dreariness --


of my empty head.

The moon reflected,

flowers floating in the wind:


such are human lives.

The moon reminds me
of my dreams, the joy
of singing, the playing
that started everything

No burden on our shoulders
no mutual resentment
The sacred must
has flowed away from us

gone out into the world
compelling and excessive, childishly
demanding that it is time
to grow up

but I already am
and the burden of my life remains
mine, perhaps lighter
if we carry it together

The moon shines sorrow

into me, yet I'm looking --


through a haze of tears.

The more concretely

you tell a story, the less --


you'll be understood.

The more you want me,

the more you'll see me, even --


when I am not there.

The mosquitoes dance

in the fading evening light –


the butterfly leaves.

The mosquito smells


blood, she can sting gently, but --



not fly silently.

Thinking of diseases
I cannot prevent them
not all, but most
just by thinking of them

I leave others in their healthy delusion
just not to linger over diseases
because there are so many

dangers that it is a miracle

to grow old
you don't have eyes everywhere
you don't always have hands
resources and time available

you don't even control

yourself, you only have gratitude
when life is better than expected
and you realize what is most important

The mountain stands imperturbable
in the sun, being, being

Receiving clouds, and hail, snow
their bubbling and whirling going away

at its feet, the children's rush
and the pubertal noise of water

playing itself hot
in an embedded adventure

And I am standing on top
of the mountain, being, being

Receiving the sun, experiences
and night thoughts, growing old

Everything melts, nothing in my hands
nothing in my open arms

Books and photos on paper
are a fine way of preserving
and keeping my life complete -

who I have become
from my youth up, memories
of my family, images

of their presence
their activities and the places
that belong to it, all together

a constantly growing mountain
with hair-thin dendrites:
the mountain of my life

The mountains and all

their sparkling streams are the void:


clotted and melted.

The mountains, floating

out of range above the sea:

the heavenly land.

The mouths are open,

wide, as if they are screaming:


the leaf ***** in air.

The movie actress

sits on horsehair, you see it --


because she feels it.

The muffled silence

of fine drizzling rain, with cows –


pulling at the grass.

The music can't go

bad, so everyone enjoys --


beating his heart out.

The music of Bach

is grief comforting people --


with touching beauty.

The Mystic Lamb moves

him much, so I keep looking --


at his emotion.

Then, Adam and Eve

invented god and soon he --


was superior.

Then, at the abyss,

a flame shoots up from us, licked --


by the total fire.

The neighbours have left,

their garden is drying out --


now I water it.

The nest with swallows:

a squadron squeaks and swishes --


down onto our cat.

To have something to do
the attendant brushes up the pumps
In the forest it is already dark

Here it remains light, open
if you wait a few minutes
until he is out of bed

But that is no longer the case at night
The villagers refuel during the day
and long-distance traffic drives past

The economy keeps moving
The country, everyone, lives thanks
to the network (the concrete one)

and it may take some time
before it will be automated
Then occasionally someone will come

to spray the pumps clean
the fly spots will remain
and waxing will no longer be done

The new Office is

growing, in the rear garden --


of the Head Office.

The news, every day:

fires are burning in the streets --


right out of the hearts.

The night is over,

I still dance in the café --


on the shards of glass.

Just in time, the order has been restored
but it has cost me a lot of soldiers
What a night, the men are exhausted
they hope and wish that it is over
but the day is coming, now

the execution, the exhibition
of the king and his commanders –
what a sight he is
in his expensive clothes
with a diagonal bandage

as a royal crown around his head
stumbling through the narrow streets
Today the cheers are mine, with the wailing
of women and the elderly
the horror on everyone's face:

What have they done? Is it really him?

The nights are silent,

the ferries out of service --


everyone in bed.

The night sky is full

of thunder-strokes and lightning --


from my intentions.

Then I heard the sound

of only one clapping hand –


and my cheek turned red.

Then it is autumn,

wind, wet twilight hours, the shops --


illuminated.

Notre-Dame, she is quite old: although she may
bury Paris, which has witnessed her birth, one day
But in thousand years or more, Time will make recoil
her heavy body, like a wolf does with a bull
and twist each iron axon, each of her neurones
to gnaw alas, with its blunt tooth, her bones of stones!

Many men will overflow the island in the Seine
to contemplate the barren ruin, the last remains
dreamers, re-reading what Victor Hugo has seen ahead:
- Then they'll think they see the old basilica
as it was, mighty and magnificent, a Gloria
rising up before them like the shadow of a dead!

The ocean rustles

endlessly far around me --


here, in the brooklet.

The officials in

their official light blue shirts --


around little chest.

The old actor has

been playing all grandfathers --


for twenty-five years.