Just in nowhere in the middle
do I hear a being's fiddle,
nothing else: no cries, no sighs.
And I see a vapour rise
and the abyss at my feet,
where the ghosts in darkness meet,
without torches, without light,
nowhere bridges are in sight,
clouds devour the ways to go,
only shadows form a row,
trembling, changing, quickly shrinking,
shaking, jerking, downward sinking,
just above the groundless ground,
dancing to the fiddler's sound.
What he plays is quite confusing,
hopeless, cheerful and amusing,
cruel, tender and atrocious,
tilted, foolish and ferocious:
any song played with precision,
but there is no repetition ...
When the dream has gone away,
still the music wants to stay.
Waiting for the final dart ...
I will keep it in my heart.
February l6th, 2o17
Toutes les droites appartiennent à son auteur Il a été publié sur e-Stories.org par la demande de Inge Hoppe-Grabinger. Publié sur e-Stories.org sur 16.02.2017.