Finally the sun,

in the park a dove flies up --


freed from my pale skin.

Isn't it beautiful

today? It's a miracle --


but who is impressed?

From now on, dare to

be tough, firm and resistant --


more than a man's wish.

Between a problem

and my actual action --


lies a nowhereland.

The speech is followed

by silent applause, the hands --


just raise the glasses.

Are dissertations

anti-science? Given that --


they're unreadable?

Less manual work,

more machines, does that make us --


more and more happy?

Duties fascinate

me, but when they're done I know --


they don't mean too much.

The plants will show you

where it is passable here:


the Questioning Bog.

Mist, with some shadows

of animals in the side --


of the road, hit, dead.

From the isle we sail

across the lake, a man sings --


and the sun is low.

Well, I have wished for

an antipole, I got it --


as a drag on me.

In hindsight you see

what happened, not surprising --


but predictable.

He is trying so hard

that he doesn't realise he --


makes no impression.

As a child I roamed

the grounds, barefoot through puddles --


and I still do that.

Writing about the

past, you reflect on yourself --


in terms of that time.

You should not do it

secretly: but unnoticed --


just tactically.

He brings in a lot,

pages full of arguments --


so, something is wrong.

In stories about

the past we read how people --


looked back at the time.

Until the Spring Ball

the farms in the bog form an --


archipelago.

There are still places,

as usual, in the seats --


next to the bosses.

He is paralysed

and speaks a new language now:


Zjazzezjizj vizi.

The girl just watches,

her parents build tall towers --


till they fall over.

You're getting older,

tomorrow is not at all --


the day that would come.

The sexton enjoys

lamenting about God's love --


and the vale of tears.

Father is buried,

there is more light now, the sky --


is so much wider.

Some people blame me

for my normal, daily face:


You should have a rest!

I can't handle him,

only could beat him to death --


but I can't do that.

Outside is the earth, the life
of lungs, hearts and legs
Outside we experience the wonder
of everything around us
Outside we live the wonder
of who we are

Within is heaven, the creative soul
of our life together
Within we unfold
and we give the best
Within we are open
to what the world offers

Open, I let
the outside in and
the inside out
like a stream
Open, I am
I receive and I care

It's always the same:

there must be a better way --


So, should I do it?

There's a thin sea drifting
above the sea, I float
everywhere, infinitely
between ancestors
and unborn

The sea kisses and plays
pulls me under water
up in high foams
which splash apart into
my new rainbow wisps

over the sea, from the sea
the bearing sea
engulfing sea
evaporating sea

making depths out
of valleys, creative
darkness, the sea
the full empty sea

I surrender and

dance, at home, across the room --


singing with my arms.

Unrest. Lotte is ill
I grab my backpack
my compass and some clothes
put on my boots, a jacket
and I'm out of doors

On my way to Lotte
Being alone with myself
As long as I'm on the road
she will live
she will not die

She's not going to die, it mustn't be
She's not going to die, she's not going to die
No, no, not now, not yet
It's not the time yet
She mustn't, she won't

My steps stomp
The earth shakes
Where I go, a bison rumbles
Where I rest, a mountain rests
When I'm there, she'll be alive

In times when you're bored,

you just don't know what to do --


with your vague desires.

High in the mountains:

the silence, the absence, most --


of all of myself.

You only need to

understand yourself, really --


no one needs to know.

'Love you too', you say.

It sounds like an echo, like --


something from the past.

Don't ask for the sense

of what's happening to you --


no, you must keep heart!

More and more colours join the flag
until the whole spectrum shines like a sun
a beacon
on the troubled journey

It's just a flag
nonviolent communication
in the wind
a silent look

The pole a magic wand
a seeress, beacon
of patience
made of the right stuff

Oak and elder, willow, fig and fir
the trees of Mother Earth
beech and birch, cedar, cypress
so many more than elm and ash

A healing staff
with a robe to wear
in the colours of our soul
all colours of light

People are equal,

Article 1 states, but who --


does obey the law?

After a few years,

his love is dull, his smell not --


pleasant anymore.

Yet what does it mean

that you have taken my hands --


in yours just like that?

We can indeed laugh

at ourselves, the two of us --


if nobody knows.

Can people be smart

enough to truly judge --


whether they believe?

The dancer, amazed,

keeps revealing secret doors --


that no one can see.

Together we can

untangle our confessions --


before the mirror.

It is just broken,

but no one said anything --


that is the bad thing.

Does society

choose my friends critically --


from people on hand?

The world reflects everything
from everyone, but luckily
we see very little of it

Except, unfortunately, the queen
who gains in beauty every day
But young men don't see it

They shout: the princess
is more beautiful - their fantasy
of daily pleasure, a dream

of effortlessly becoming king
So Helen does not trust herself
She looks in the mirror

that lies a false truth
she walks to the lake
(guards follow her remotely)

Her eyes search the water
her lips talk to the wash of the waves
her hands reach for a golden fish

There are no best years,

they're different, all of them --


are most beautiful.