words

The Great White / for Paul Celan

The windmill slows down at the heart of the storm,

Now your words reach the harbors of grace

The sprouts melt their way through the cracks and the stains:

It is time for the great white

 

What was forsaken will sing.

What was gathered will never be broken.

The stones you inhale make amends with the sky

All the torn flags are bidding farewell.

The promises you made to your spleen and the iris:

Lay them down and walk on.

Sooner or later the sirens of midnight will call you,

And tear down the walls with the tips of their merciful tongues.

Your watch is completed.

The stream of the Sein keeps you safe and sound.

Your wandering forehead is tamed and prepared-

Your allowed when the night can no longer sleep

As your words twist and turn in the dreams of a lost mother

it is time:

for the great white.

The angel of poppy surrenders his will to your fine flint,

the currents will guide you-

the map that they utter is precise,

The blood clots are lost in the sand down below,

Now a blind man will harvest the moonlight.

Sooner or later the sirens of midnight will call you,

And tear down the walls with the tips of their merciful tongues. Your watch is completed.

The stream of the Sein keeps you safe and sound.

 
 

Children's Corner

 

I can't remember on which side I used to lay my head

I can't Remember

This long endless walk

 

And no one whispered in my ears about the little toys

About the precious

So I climb up the stairs

 

It comes to hold you, comes to warn you, comes to colorblind

The mornings pile: 

Year after year

 

And no one whispers in your ears about the seven birds

About the crystal

Now there is nothing to gain

 

Oh how they slip away in the blink of an eye

How they slip away 

Like wind-blown dust

Tale Reprise

 

Far, over the hills

Across seven white deserts

Across seven black seas

If you throw yourself inside

Scattered in all directions

Giving it all until  the ashes 

Are lighter than air

 
 

Hunter

 

crossroads. waiting. numb toes. windbound

yesterdays letters arrive

outlined. sharper. fist-clenched. heavy

windbound, unnoticed, unmarked

 

with pockets empty of star dust and signals or prayers.

no where no one will ever wait. 

he says: ‘i remember tomorrows departures,

this blind ghost that borrowed my name forever’.

 

When morning comes I’ll leave again and head with broken eyelids to the freezing water

The winds will flap the patched sails in and out

through hazy ways of nameless doubt 

but in my dreams the gates will light up then fade and disappear

fade and disappear.

 

So far there is no island

so far my skin grows thick

the currents are double crossing

all the white light was rewinded

the silver swans were drowned beneath the waves

 

So far no one could reach me,

and smuggle spoken words behind the veil

I give away my stories to the nymphs and to the beggars

but the silver swans have drowned beneath the waves

Ring The Bells

 

When the Jew of Amsterdam put down his pen

you woke up breathing heavy and sweating

the night froze at once and you couldn't quite tell

the dense clouds of silence from the desperate cries

 

the blackbirds would not sing the distance no more

cause the compasses all came undone

and darkness was bright more than ten thousand suns

cause the stars had no secrets to give

----

When the Jew of Amsterdam put down his pen

you could hear the fluttering wings fade away

and see through the walls how the wells disappear

and the latter falls down and the letters lose weight

 

The waters reflected the sky as before 

but the doubts came up creeping and itching

Oh that ancient-blue-blister has run down its course

and theres no one to wipe off the blood

------

A man is grinding silver lenses. his lungs are filled with dust and dreams

he rings the bells he’s leaning over. the yellow sparrows falls.

-----

When the Jew of Amsterdam put down his pen

the flood made its way though the windows and the doors

and the people could not patch their flags anymore

and the old books did not make any sense

 

And the land was as bare as a whisper of death

they could not decide anymore

If the prince was a thief, if the king has been murdered

when the peacocks got lost on their way

-------------

A man is grinding silver lenses. his lungs are filled with dust and dreams

he rings the bells he’s leaning over. the yellow sparrows falls.

--------------

you alone with no tears and no home

with your cardboard womb, in your exile

you alone on your bed trying hard to unwind

all those riddles that twist down your spine

you alone with the drowned and beheaded but yet

you reach out for the pen where its left

and you look for the word to engrave and inject

till the water runs down and the dove flies away

 
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