Poetry (English)

Nobody wants this to hear: that it looks like dying
But it is nothing more than being born. Nothing less.

You leave one tissue for another,
Narrowness you leave for space, warmth for pain.
You leave it, you walk alone, your walking is singing,

There is no other destination than walking,
No other way to sing
      than to keep silent.

Freedom of silence:
Old men, books, death.
Those who speak, add little.

Gods. Those sent by gods. Godfathers.

At the end there was a big fire.
A smash. Grinding skuls, sceptres, tears.
Not only children love fairy tales
In which wishes come true.

‘Later - I think, I sometimes wish -
when peacemakers, preservers and catastrophists
dissapear in a cloud of absinth which once
                           (as the books say)
falls out of the stars -
                           (but who cares anyway)

lay your fingers in the empty eye-socket
of the gods
                 and don’t spare your hatred.’

It is forbidden land embanked
By fear.

We arrive by twilight
Like driven off people,
No one wants us.

We sleep on the banks,
We get rid of bread and boots,
We loose our names.

That endless night we dream
Of some one’s hand that chills the fever
Or of the hand that strangles.

Tomorrow, with the first crows,
Tomorrow, more naked than the first man,
Tomorrow we put fear between brackets.

We will beg, but it is too late.

We will walk on forbidden roads
Through the smell of fire and mist
To the wooden house full of goat’s meat and leaven.

We will wake next to the wall full of
Bullets of the latest war,

Next to the window, where someone waves
With the European flag

Or with a loaded gun.

Where we see many corpses, there is plenty of love.

The destroyed love of the dead ones
And the hated love of the killers.

Holes in the ground, in heads,
In words. A gap in a god.

Everybody claims love. Stroked.
A gap in the belly of a dull.

I remember a war. Outside
Is another one. Counting doesn’t

Count. Individuals don’t count.