I went out of her little house to my bed.
On a trip taken by thousands before me.
With a damp heart,
that someone had left behind on the major reads
and in the small alleys.
I saw how my head was tossed by the wind.
My eyes stare, tears flow from them.
An arrow was snagged in a cornea.
I knew who I would met on the street.
and who would suddenly appear in the morning on another street.
I knew the words,
the words that I should leave everywhere
so they might make the crossing easier for me.
The words were my only provisions.
Whenever I thought
that I was need the bed
and almost touched it,
my feet slipped far away
and the way
the road got farther and farther away.
At a door, a woman pulled me over to herself,
she touched my face
and she said:
“Can you go back home?”
“Start from there again.”
I would have smiled at her,
but my voice was like it was strangled.
And to go back home or to bed
was a question
you could not rely on
as long as my clothes were undone
I tore at my thick hair and
rained it down on me.
When I opened my eyes,
I saw her small house and my bed.
They rocked before me
like giant bells in an empty church.
I was supposed to hold on tightly to one of them for
the time being,
but they did not stop.
I had planned and practiced the trip for the first day on how I could return without losing one drop of blood. And I often returned unharmed. But, in this city the roads are more winding than they should be. Although this city knew no fog, the visibility was blurred by something. So no one could think of a return home or to bed. What we wanted was a small sidewalk and people who appreciated the struggle of lovers.
Translated by: Hrsg von Jörg Armbruster und Suleman Taufiq.