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| Photo: Kurt Markus |
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart,singing like
an idiot,whispering like a drunken man
who(at a certain corner,suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
awake
being not asleep,elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner
- ”Ici?” - ”Ah non,mon cheri;il fait trop froid”-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing
rain and leaves,filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....halfsinging
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
E. E. Cummings
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