All things are seamless,
As though forgotten, light and dull.
From the sacred heights the green sky spills
Still water on the city.
Glazed cobblers’ lamps shine.
Empty bakeries are waiting.
People in the street, astonished, stride
Towards a miracle.
A copper red goblin runs
Up towards the roof, up and down.
Little girls fall, sobbing
From the poles of street lights.
The Trip to the Mental Hospital (II)
A little girl crouches with her little brother
Next to an overturned barrel of water.
In rags, a beast of a person lies gulping food
Like a cigarette butt on the yellow sun.
Two skinny goats stand in broad green spaces
On pegs, and their ropes sometimes tighten.
Invisible behind monstrous trees
Unbelievably at peace the huge horror approaches.
In weary circles a sick fish hovers
In a pond surrounded by grass.
A tree leans against the sky—burned and bent.
Yes... the family sits at a large table,
Where they peck with their forks from the plates.
Gradually they become sleepy, heavy and silent.
The sun licks the ground with its hot, poisonous,
Voracious mouth, like a dog—a filthy enemy.
Bums suddenly collapse without a trace.
A coachman looks with concern at a nag
Which, torn open, cries in the gutter.
Three children stand around in silence.
What do I care about the swift newspaper boys.
The approach of the late auto-beasts does not frighten me.
I rest on my moving legs.
My face is wet with rain.
Green remains of the night
Stick to my eyes.
That’s the way I like it—
Even as the sharp, secret
Drops of water crack on thousands of walls.
Plop from thousands of roofs.
Hop along shining streets...
And all the sullen houses
Listen to their
Close behind me the burning night is ruined...
Its smelly corpse burdens my back.
But above me I feel the rushing,
Behold—I am in front of a
Large and quiet it takes me in.
Here I shall stay for a while.
Immersed in its dreams.
Dreams out of gray
Silk that does not shimmer.
A frozen moon stands waxen,
Above me and the dull
Throws green light
Like a garment,
A wrinkled one,
On bluish land.
But from the edge
Of the city,
Like a soft hand without fingers,
And fearfully threatening like death
An empty slow sea swells towards us—