Anyone who was once there
It is still snowing.
I go up into the tower-room and gaze one
more time out over the bay: heaviness and dizziness.
Someone phones and puts forward optimistic
suggestions, and of course: you can dance the foxtrot
till the very end. But I prefer to make an excursion
to a nearby folklore museum or apply to become
a mezzo-soprano in the church choir, although I don’t
sing all that well. It’s not easy. It is really quite
a problem. I know which continent you set store
by, but now an imbalance prevails between the species
there: everyone took with them some cuddly toy they didn’t
want to leave behind. Now they devour each other. I know which
regions appeal to you, anyone who was once there always yearns
to return. Sweat and whatever else that slid along
the walls when one went to bed. In the tropics
stray dogs are not strays in the same way,
they live and die. The snow swirls ever thicker and faster
round the roses, the darkly shimmering remains of the night.
We don’t remember everything, but a great deal.
To see the original and hear the author read the poem, go to here