Wo wir stehen, wachsen Bäume, nicht von unsrem Trieb
wo wir warten, fließen Flüsse, nicht von unsrem Quell
wenn wir rasten, wehen Winde, nicht von unsrer Kraft
Was, wenn ein Land uns die Sonne aufhinge?
Der ist nichts als ein Dieb, und hätt' er auch Träume,
Der so schnell, so schnell, aus der Rosen Küsse
Sich Wahrheit verschaffte und uns dann sagte:
ich finde.
Bleiben wir Schmetterlinge.
Für Mahmoud Darwish
Ma'a Salama!
© 2004,8
Calendar
Archives
You see, here you'll find poems of opportunity and seasons. They're mine, though, so I have to protect them.
Welcome! If you are willing to follow the iconian path, you should know that it is always you we are talking to, even if it is not. And that everything is true, even if it is not. We all are eternally united in the last space possible where even the impossible is real. We ought to believe the foretold: If we'll meet tomorrow, next year, or never, it doesn't matter, it's only time! And everything, even time is fiction.
By the way, typos and other mistakes - we know there are many. If you can be bothered, please let us know. Thank you! And for any legal issues, please contact us before we have to tell you that we're skinned. But you can also write, of course, if you like what you read. Please, write to the webmaster.
