WE LOST THE WORDS We lost the words at the shore of the sea, we lost the words to start to sing. We returned inland, we lost the

TO SELL In spring, I sell violets from lost gardens. In summer, paper roses asters of words. In autumn in the winter, frost flowers from the window of

IX I am a herdsman of flocks. The flock is my thoughts, and my thoughts are all sensations. I think with my eyes and my ears and with

HARP Your body is a harp strings along a sound-board a resonator box plucked with fingers neck flats sharps in the shape of a triangle a hunting bow

LESSON it’s so few words that I wring out of myself, as much as some chalk dust out of an eraser after the blackboard’s been wiped clean. Something

DAWN OF HOPE The light of dawn erases the traces of the night. Relentlessly, time goes on flowing, although I wish it would stop like a picture fixed

EAGLE The ravens fly in swarms the eagle flies alone —Luchino Visconti So close to heaven flies the eagle lonely as the poet who patiently waits the arrival

HARVEST I’ll pass through other doors, when the light pushes me and the dew shines in the morning on rose petals and the foam of the sea. Just

AN EARRING LEFT IN MY HAND All the time I heard their whispering voice. But I didn’t mix it with my sighs. Because they touched my ears, I

SEARCH „I searched in your body for the garlands of thirst, for the path of pomegranates revived by the grey squirrels of silence, for a mauve sunset, or