If I were to fill a chest
With what I treasured
– Ever so gingerly –
Within my casket’s hollow insides
Surely, I would deny
That the remains reached to the rim
For I never felt the need
To add any more than that.
Such refusal notwithstanding,
The little treasures are taking up
All the space I ever gave to them.
However much that may be.
The doors of the crypt
Aren’t opening up
– We are the outcasts –
Voices from far away
Revealing their amusement
Whilst laughing at our pain.
The Reaper is appalled
That we came to search him
Until his sadistic hands moved
Leaving an endless bunch of keys
– Watching our never-ending efforts –
To get through the door.
The eyes of many
Care to be astonished by outlines.
It occurs to me though
The more depths you dare to add
The less captivated they are.
It’s seems they fear to get lost
In the midst of the inner world
Someone has built up.
The highest mountains,
The deepest holes,
The widest fields….
None of that will be discovered,
The hard work of years not appreciated.
The person will only be reduced
To the outlines they see
The leaves are falling,
Leaving trees uncovered.
How do they continue
Without their shields?
Not a single one will be adored,
Watched at with a smile.
It’s getting colder outside
Announcing winter’s arrival
Far to early as it seems.
Even to whom summer’s too warm
This winter is too freezing.
So how do I get it right?
I let the feeling of amazement settle down around me,
The fascinating glimmer of magic
Covering me like the sand covers the desert’s ground.
The lights and shadows are growing heads and bodies,
Preparing themselves to dance
A slow waltz that will embed itself into my memories.
And somewhere between their steps and turns
They still manage to take my hand
And lead me across the paths of the next story
Awakening their comrades to tell the tale.
The words are coming alive
Drawing lines between the spaces
People occupied to hide away.
Watching as they left themselves behind.
The end will not be revealed,
The people will not be hidden.
When the ebony choirs
Paused to relish the sounds
Of an elegy whispered
Amidst the cover of leaves,
Its echo slowly vanishes.
They may be in doubt
(They could have imagined)
But a non-existent whisper
Would not have been carried
With the wind’s cautious care.
Langsam schwebt der Vorhang
(Aus tiefster Schwärze gewoben)
Hinab, sich auf die Erde zu legen.
Es sollte an uns sein,
Sich durch den Stoff zu fressen,
Damit wir nicht unter ihm ersticken.
Fehlt es uns an dem Mut,
Unter unserem Versteck hervorzukriechen,
Oder an dem Willen hervorzuschauen?
Das grelle Licht über ihm
Wird den Vorhang nicht zu heben wagen,
Obgleich es darauf lauert, uns zu blenden…