Here the addressing

for Nicolas Born

The paths, often walked, became deeper,

the wide dike, the distance, nothing gave rest.

Nothing but pain was left, the hollow breath,

your body still, hardened, tired.

You spoke about years, you spoke of final deadlines,

you wanted to go on, hope: summer, two more.

You saw the house, the two raw rooms,

there you would, already in autumn, write.

The first late days of November,

they, the last traces, plinked on the windows.

The rain dripped, bare the access roads,

the cars pushing lights through the trees.

Poems bear witness, your writing, the voice,

in the rustling of leaves once more you: your dream

of images, of tissue, of books. Bones.

Jürgen Theobaldy, Germany (1944)

Translation Germain Droogenbroodt

Painting by Leonid Afremov