April 20, 2018

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.