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Nguyen Chi-Trung

Winds of heaven, which divide it,
heaven that will be torn tonight
through no doing of any human being,
still void of the past. Are they definitely
lost, the most inherent lives of art?
More inherent as the river to the fisherman,
the forest to the forester
The area of Here and Now, it is without gratitude,
without thoughtfulness. Does the original earth
carry the grief, does it? It has to.


Winds of darkness that howls in the obscuration
tonight, a night that will be even gloomier.
Whose heart is blinded by the incessant rain
which inflicts, with short drops like those of the
seven-year-old maidens, with long drops like
those of the night sounds, hits and crashes.
Soon the remembrance will be of parting.


Winds of the whisper that becomes ever
softer tonight, that makes stillness appear
all-devouring. Did we carry it out? It seems so,
as if there were still something that has not
been finished. Never. Let us not be certain.
The heart writhes under the tormentor of
the moment. Where do the furrows of
the drought point us to. Probably a lateness
will not be again.


Winds of the dream that is a life that such
cannot be, whose howling pierces the present
night and the stony seas. The rain. It is raining
as though it has forever waited to do so.
As though they always have waited
for each other, the seamstress of heaven
and the keeper of water buffalos,
seeing each other on the stone bridge,
stone by stone built by innumerable cranes,
heart to heart not forgetting each other.


Winds of space, winds of universe,
that whistle under the thin-blooded autumn
blanket. The drop of grief bursts on the
pavement, or even before it touches the dirty
puddle that rests on the stone plate?
The heel from once, that in times
long gone advances outwards from home,
whose heaviness still oppresses the soul,
can we perceive it, with the brain
and the dwindling heart?


Winds of followers who lead and
accompany us in the starless search.
We do not know where to go,
we have no clue, we guess the probable areas
of loneliness whose reign is spreading
like pebble-stones in earthy holes.
Of the emptiness.
Enormous quantity of things. Immeasurable.
The soul, should it not disappear?


Winds over the humanless mourning court,
where the leaves are fleeing together,
in order to get away and to lose one another,
without reason, not touching either the stone
or the earth. Where has the Where-to gone
and where to was the Where?
A small give-to-each-other,
is it too much
or does it mean nothing?


Winds over the staggering body,
passing by the blue staring columns
of the eye, with firm shadow
of remembrance that does not end.
When. When do we know about this When.
Oh memory that wanders over the nearness
and the remoteness like windfalls,
and leaves tragedy behind.
Mostly here in the word.


Winds of the moment and of the long whiles,
winds that change life, a life that does not let
itself be filled up to the brim. With what though?
Not with the nothing. Like a dried-up coconut
on a scorched beach, existence is simply there.
Our mind has its debts that cannot be exonerated.
Let us leave the heart and the brain to vanish
in coal and ashes, with due devotion.


Winds of the unreachable heights of the
fog-flooded mountains, there where meanings
and words are brought, not in this world,
not beyond, belonging neither to the area
of I nor that of You. once I sent you a word
of poetry. You did not know of it,
you did not care about it
and it did not touch you!
I see and accept it: a No-said is also
a No-said. A no, a nothing, a nihil.
Yet every hour I enter the waiting state,
carried by hope, fear,
doubt and a black brain.


Winds that sweep away and empty everything
that clings to us, winds that reveal life as
something unforeseen, undreamable, unthought-of.
The heart is a torn thing and the soul a gone cold
and indifferent thing. Empty streets and emptied
wearisome paths of the in-half-divided night!
The black hole that sucks into itself the terribly
remote days that even condemn me further
to look for them in the buildings within
the existential, paired with always returning
half-lives and not-killed longing.


Winds of the desert that now drops by
in our life, for a short moment, and
departs again, leaving the populated
and barren earth. What remains here
and there is the rest of sand and dust,
whirled up in the ripped-off tackles
of our wreck, held by intangible grief.
What I shall give you in your hand,
trusting in the complete acceptance
of the word, it occurs in my imagination
that never thinks that not only grief alone
carries me, but I also carry your grief.


Winds that turn away from us, forming,
but barely accelerating the decay of the soul
outwards to the sky that does not go away
and does not offer a protection any more.
Is there still a word from the named home
country? The remembrance causes the
inner stream of that which dies and at the
same time lives. The remembrance!
Yes, it rises over the shore of the broken soul,
hindering it to flood through in distant,
unknown, cruel areas.


Winds that carry themselves and outlast
like grief in the time, grief that comes at night
through the naked flesh like the female
visitor of our body, by means of the darkness
and without speech, hunting the body into
desperation. What can life be for. Maybe
also to bring the same further the being-there
and the being-gone to the meaning
and to the word.


Winds that make love disappear, that like
every human event in a life is based on
misunderstandings. You have lost me
from the heart that became blue, and
I still hold your image that is left from
the past nights, tight on the open breast
that proceeds to the ocean like a window,
in between the shore of life, wherein
a few things are freshly etched in.


Winds that pass through the areas of
emptiness that is everywhere since
the beginning of life, once in invisible villages,
protected by unending virgin forests,
now in heavily loaded cities of misfortune,
crammed in the tummy of the brood-swine.
The heart is a human stone that is wearing out.
And one speaks about another golden stone
that is indestructible like the word.


Winds that bring over the sadness from
nowhere into life, winds that plunge
the miserable lives into fleshy misery.
A misery without time, dancing in tandem
with the time, following each other
in the rhythm of death. There would never
be enough hardship! Our body is the exile
into the unspeakable, exile that,
like the wave of fate,
brushes everything aside.
Until when.


Winds that transform life - dream that has
become material, lust that has become pain -
into the attack of death with the gentle throes
of the moment. Without really taking leave
from the waste sea whose waves are
indispensable for us and spreading
themselves. Oh day, you open yourself
sparkling and bright! The present, you are
now there, barely lasting and only carrying
the disappearing in you. Are you all there?


Winds that bring back the very ancient
stories that were very far and did not stop
simmering there. Their whispering teaches us
much of the little that is left, rare
like autumn grass on earthy ground
where the $3>$3>morphosis lies buried,
from dust to dust. Many are we,
but much we have not.
The tiny measures of our history
are quite sufficient to cover the soul
with many layers of thousand year-old moss.


Winds that have buried all the inner of
our dwellings, the silent moonlight over
dark libraries, the mechanical sound of desperation.
The few meters into the depth of the earth,
is it deeper than that of the inner heart?
Were they, oh winds, able to bury the grief?
The prayer that we have chosen instead of
the poem, and the monks garment can hide
much from us and for us.
Oh poem! What a thing is it on earth?


Winds that indeed carried everything away,
the noise of midday, the droning of agitated
minds, the maelstrom of the alphabetical
languages, and only let us perceive
the rustling of the dried-up bamboo leaves
through the trembling porch that is
composed of the brushwood and this
from bygone days. The path of blood
runs past the fracture of the heart that,
like a block of wood that is divided
into halves under the axe,
while the cry calls for nobody, just calls.


Winds that carry all that away from
the human camp, from the dwelling of
the century and from the hilly world of decay.
Why did they leave behind only damnation
for us? We open the pages that are filled
with impatient words written with black tears
as ink, that alone survives the millenniums.
We live, which means, we carry the parting
not only in our flesh.


Winds that seem to come from the areas that
must be very close to us, self-expelled exiles,
so close like the heart and the brain that we
carry and cultivate as long as our pain grows.
What is that, when in literature one speaks
about arriving, and life itself knows of none,
but only exists? We declare that our history
as of now is complete, but it has not come to
an end yet.


Winds that come from foggy stone heights,
moving over barren heaven slopes,
over gold-green fields that bear young sprouts,
over valleys covered with words,
emptied sense-rivers without all the sinister
sediment of man. The heart of the inner,
is it free of decay, is it still wide enough?
It wants nevertheless to conceive the
all-surrounding emptiness in the same way
as the cliff greets the raging waves
in the helpful darkness of the night.


Winds that like a sledge without touching
the cold glide over a sheet of paper that is
worn thin, though it still invisibly contains
the lived life. In the veins comes up
the smell of old ink, recalling memories.
Memories of the vanished person
that took with her the traces and
left no scent in the wind.
Oh memory is always lonely!
And forgetting the vanished person?
Can life be lived and what about ones own life,
when it is over.


Winds that linger over the water face
of the Ganges, turning away and coming back,
like the lingering, turning away and
coming back of our tragedy.
What is this repetition for, even without
the least interference of man?
The partly burnt flesh, faded in the
dull water of eternity, shows the now completed
decay that was given along at birth.
Many joys were there in the course
of a life. Where are they now
- at long last those of the flesh -
in the long stream of non-existence?


Winds, how could you now undo
things happened, give the strand to the stranded,
love to the lover? It is the word itself that
carries within itself its answerable state,
that increases the fog which mixes itself in us,
putting us into the floating state.
Is it not the inner heart that banishes
the flesh into exile? Yet in this hell
that surrounds us, we are threatened
by the final misjudgement of that
which we named the soul.


Winds, how can you exhaust the language
to its very final shallowness? The word,
this inheritance of the material, is it not abysmal,
is it not indestructible and inextinguishable.
The coming and going in the miserable form
of the ephemeral appearance, the only one
we have all this is only there to leave
behind a last sheet, the verse, the poem?


Winds that originate from the realm without
boundaries, travelling far and wide over
the endless areas, stopping to stay with us and
talking and playing with us like a lover,
for a few minutes and immediately announcing
the parting without letting us see each other
in the moment, where we breathlessly
hesitate, because we were not able to say
a word for us. It has not yet been said and
already we know no more of one another!


Winds that rummaged in the soul,
passing over it, soul that is now squashed,
gathering itself in a composition, for a stanza,
where the sufferings of a life hide themselves
behind it. For whom the stanza?
And which poet can present all the sufferings
endured and the speechless pains on a sheet
of paper which is scattered apart in torn scraps
and comes together now labyrinth-like,
while it is on its way.


Winds whose nightly howling blows around
the columns of the street lanterns,
enclosing their feeble light. Winds that bring
the rain on all paths of the emptied cities,
like a homeless who drags himself wearily
in the devastated streets and loses his way,
who goes from one end of a street
to the beginning of another, always finding
himself on the edge. What is that,
which carries in itself an old shadow
that is continuously gnawing at the heart?


Winds that bring the rain drops from
the deep engrossment into appearance
and let the day-big drops vanish into oblivion;
drops that in the confusion still search for their
own part, alone and despite the ignorance;
drops from which one could once expect
something temporary, but something
permanent continues. And the drops of today,
they burst from now on,
in the song of innocence,
on an untouched leaf.


Winds that travelled over the former virgin
forests, over the wings of the tree,
over the remaining brushwood of the last desert
arriving to the dusty grass, now gathered in
the paper sheets that remain as the only thing
from us, after all that human work, because
they outlive us. Here is a sheet that laments
and weeps like the humming of insects
in the summer night. Here a sheet that
has long ago lost the styl℮ of the high days,
but that has not worn itself out yet!


Winds, how must you be constituted to be
able to fill our emptiness, to grasp
our addiction, to warm the moment of
change of times and the touch of remembrance
in the blackest night. Or do you sow the decay
and the cold your original diction,
but also the last deep into the end of the heart,
into the brain, into the blood-dried bones
that are exposed to the winds
from the beginning of life.
A life that will be missed.


Winds, could you sweep away love
and the conception of love entirely
and definitively from the human realm?
In this way the innermost heart must not search
for itself any more. Is being-human poetic?
Oh mistress of the heart! The blood-heart
is an ephemeral thing, a superficiality grown
pale, an evaporated moment.
The word is left behind.
We all are the holder of transition.


Winds that let a lullaby cling softly as if
they wanted to compensate for all the suffering
that continuously takes place.
Sometimes there is time left for it
- we must be aware of the moment, of only it -,
at all times it is too late. To have suffered life,
what makes up for it? Could we regret,
in the up and down of the days,
to live or to have lived?
Who has not at the beginning
tried to hold the dreams in his own hands?
The time to his end, these are always
the times of ashes that have come
from the whirl to rest.


Winds that let the still remaining lamentation
tone out in the lullaby; winds, naked and
without anger, that take the place of men
that are numerously present, but absent,
so as to call back from the realm of misery
which we do not know of, which we thirst for.
The misery which we intended to move away from,
now it is necessary to put it in our vocabulary,
to name it in our self-oblivion.
Where else is the final desperation,
the not-hope of the supposedly last century?
And which heart is not broken
when the innermost heart is broken.


Winds that pass by like onslaughts,
at times thundering, at other times hesitating,
that impatiently push into new land
where time is no more, that retreat
melancholically into old land where time was.
Winds that elongate the pains of the days
like a low-tide flood-wave that does not end.
We ask the question: where is now the holder
of grief. She has fed us over the time,
has showed us the existence.
Does live now mean to wait for
the next day, even if todays poem,
the today in us, is not written to the end yet.
To live means to wait, and that now-happening?


Winds that quickly pull away from
our short-lived enlightenment, that stay
a long time with the misfortune,
cutting our soulful flesh and letting it bleed.
How close things are together!
In the former union at first began the parting
that is continuously happening.
And the people, loved and not loved ones,
when they are not there, does it
also mean my absence?
And the absence of the holder
of the earth, it is followed by
the absence of the poem.


Winds over the heart gone still,
over equanimity with which we guard
from the loss of ourselves,
equanimity that keeps us alive,
but does not let us live.
All this is of such beauty that
does not tread in sync with the talent,
from the beauty that is not inherent in art.
What a hesitation of this very heart!
What a mistrust on the part
of the mistress of artists!
How everything has become strange to itself!
How did this happen? And not,
that both of them accept the karma
and carry themselves?


Winds that begin to move from the strands
that still lie before us to the strands
that are behind us, from the shore of
forgetfulness to the shore of the unthought.
Exciting winds and boring winds.
How often do the tiny leaves of the
tamarind tree fall onto the old streets.
How often do the times return.
And whether they return.
one single time or endless times
you come onto the earth,
into the world that you do not forget,
like none of us can ever forget this earth.


Winds that from the realm of depth,
be it from people, from life, from the earth,
bring to the mind-pervaded surface that
which we assume as the everlasting
nothingness which we only accept
when we can do it, the not-life.
The nothingness inhabits the
ground of time, it therefore makes us
doubt unflinchingly about everything.
Can we be different though?
Not to write any more.
For the written is only the lamentation
of the mind, even of poetry
face to face with nothingness.


Winds, you are a long breath that
keeps alive what lives; a timeless sigh
that comes up soon after the beginning
and always continues? A not-word
that interprets and explains the being,
with all the enigma that accompanies us?
Are you a word that wants to grasp
our dramatic beginning and our
numerous ends in all details?
Are you all that, what we have hidden,
what life has covered and time has buried?
Are you also the stench that now
takes the place of the scent of former days
and spreads itself, are you the anti-beautiful
that forms the last breath of our existence?


Winds, you are the superfluous of the ethics,
the weariness of love, the sedimentation
of the human? We, todays people,
do not need all these any more,
we who have moved out, proud in our stupidity
and naked as a pebble grown blunt.
Yes, we tried to forget ourselves.
The inner heart has not however
quite reached the end yet.
Was it due to our power that we saw ourselves
from within, full of foresight of the final time?
What a simple game forgetting is!
Why can the poet forget nothing?
Neither the past, but still living sight,
nor the person herself, the summer-like noon,
the swinging air between the hearts
Even when the messenger
of forgetfulness visits every night.


Winds, you are one and the same wind that
inhabits two places departing from each other,
that are inherent in the areas of nearness
and of remoteness, of knowing and
of not-knowing, of the truth and of untruth.
Must life be thrown back before poetry?
Or poetry now before life?
No, each of our lives is not unique,
it is only life itself. Do not consider
yours as unique, what you have,
throw it out to the winds,
let it evolve and be forgotten.
The uniqueness of life lies only
in the word that you write.


Winds, you are the breath of heaven,
the intangible whiff of the deity,
breath that carries outwards the pain of people,
of the earth into the realm of the nothing
and carries it irretrievably away?
You are that, what makes life
become worthy of forgetfulness,
without us having to endure it,
persevering in our pain.
Do we know at all why so much grief
has collected in our soul,
the grief of the whole time,
drawn over the earthly surface
and over the centuries, ever
becoming more, relentlessly.
Will it ever be explained thoroughly?


Winds, you are alone the exigency of doubt?
Let therefore these words be written
because they are dramatic ones.
Let us learn to love the keeper of tragedy,
although we do not know whether
we are worthy of it, there,
where we can do everything.
Winds, you pass over the lives that linger
only between the up and down of the eyelids,
over the lives that do not want to be ended.
You pass over these times throughout
to all the times that are then outside.
Winds, you bring the not-wanting-to-end darkness
of the night in the not-wanting-to-end glorious day.
The measure of eternity can be experienced.


Winds, you are the words that are written,
and the meanings that are brought onto human light?
We always speak of the soul,
yet what do we know about the soul,
of its existence, indeed of its non-existence?
Maybe it is only a gentle scent, barely perceptible,
only present there where we are not,
where we do not go to, always outside of us,
from its earthly traces we, the self-distresser,
can sense in our moment of death,
in this sphere of nearness and remoteness.
Oh gas clouds becoming flesh!
Material becoming life !

Copyright for the translation by Michelle Nguyen 2004
Copyright by Nguyen Chi Trung 1993, Stuttgart

Nguyen Chi-Trung

Born in a city on the coast in South Vietnam, grown up in Saigon, he came in the sixties to Germany where he studied philosophy and applied mathematics. He has worked as a Doktor-Ingenieur, quitted it since 1996 and is living now in Stuttgart as a writer. He has been writing poems and letters, sometimes essays, in two languages German and Vietnamese for over four decades. He also translates world poetry into Vietnamese: Hlderlin, Trakl, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, Char, Kavafis, Pessoa, Leopardi, Montale, Dickinson, Auden, Porchia, Juarroz, Maksimovc, Khayyam, Nguyễn Du Sometimes he does drawings and calligraphies. Very few of his writings have been published so far. Participation in many International Poetry Festivals.




Winde des Himmels, die ihn halbieren,
der durchrissen wird heute nacht,
ohne jegliches menschliches Zutun,
noch bar der Vergangenheit.
Sind sie endgltig verloren,
die ureigensten Leben der Kunst?
Eigener als der Fluss dem Fischer,
der Wald dem Frster...
Die Gegend von Hiesigem und Jetzigem,
sie ist ohne Dank, ohne Bedachtheit.
Trgt das Urland die Trauer,
trgt es? Es muss.


Winde des Dunkels, das in der Verfinsterung
heute nacht heult, die noch finsterer wird.
Wessen Herz ist verblindet
vom unaufhrlichen Regen, der zufgt,
mit kurzen Tropfen wie die
der siebenjhrigen Mgde,
mit langen Tropfen wie die
der Nachtklnge, schlgt und strzt.
In Blde wird die Erinnerung
vom Abschied sein.


Winde des Geflsters, das immer
leiser wird heute nacht, die Stille
allschluckend erscheinen lsst.
Haben wir es verrichtet?
Es scheint so, es gbe noch etwas,
was nicht fertig geworden.
Niemals. Seien wir nicht sicher.
Das Herz windet sich unter dem
Peiniger des Augenblicks.
Wohin weisen uns
die Furchen der Trockenheit.
Wahrscheinlich wird ein Sptes
nicht mehr wieder sein.


Winde des Traumes, der das Leben ist
wie es nicht sein kann,
dessen Geheul die heutige Nacht
und die steinernen Meere durchzieht.
Der Regen. Es regnet, wie es schon
seit immer darauf gewartet hat.
Wie sie seit immer aufeinander warten,
die Nherin des Himmels
und der Hirt der Wasserbffel,
sich auf der steinernen Brcke sehen,
Stein fr Stein gebaut
von unzhligen Kranichen,
Herz um Herz einander
nicht vergessen.


Winde des Raumes, Winde der Weltrume,
die unter der dnnblutigen Herbstdecke pfeifen.
Der Tropfen der Trauer
ist auf dem Gehweg zerplatzt, oder
noch bevor er die dreckige Pftze berhrt,
die auf der Steinplatte ruht?
Die Ferse von Einst, die in lngst
vergangenen Zeiten auswrts fortschritt,
deren Schwere auf der Seele noch drckt,
knnen wir sie erhren,
mit dem Hirn und dem schwindenden


Winde des Gefolges, das uns fhrt,
begleitet auf der sternlosen Suche.
Wir wissen nicht wohin, ahnen nichts,
vermuten die wahrscheinlichen
Gegenden der Einsamkeit,
deren Herrschaft in erdenen Lchern
wie Kieselsteine sich ausbreitet.
Der Leerheit. Unmenge der Dinge.
Unermessliche. Die Seele, msste sie nicht


Winde ber den menschlosen Trauerhof,
wo die Bltter gemeinsam auf der Flucht sind,
um sich zu entfernen
und einander zu verlieren, ohne Grund,
weder den Stein noch die Erde berhrend.
Wo ist das Wohin geblieben
und wohin war das Wo?
Ein kleines Einandergeben, ist das zu viel
oder bedeutet es nichts?


Winde ber den schwankenden Krper,
vorbeiziehend an blauen starrenden Sulen
des Auges, mit standhaftem Schatten
der Erinnerung, die nicht endet. Wann.
Wann wissen wir ber dieses Wann.
Oh Gedchtnis, das wie Windflle
ber die Nhe und die Ferne zieht
und die Tragik hinterlsst.
Meist hier im Wort.


Winde des Augenblicks und der langen Weile,
die das Leben wechseln, das sich nicht
bis zum Rande fllen lsst. Womit auch?
Nicht mit dem Nichts.
Wie eine vertrocknete Kokosnuss
auf versengtem Strand
ist einfach das Dasein da.
Unser Geist hat seine Schulden,
die nicht freigesprochen werden knnen.
Lassen wir das Herz und Hirn
in Kohle und Asche vergehen,
mit gebhrender Hingabe.


Winde der unerreichbaren Hhen
des nebelflutigen Gebirges, dorthin
werden Sinne und Wrter gebracht,
nicht diesseits, nicht jenseits, zugehrend
weder der Gegend des Ich
noch der des Ihr.
Euch sandte ich einst
ein Wort des Gedichts.
Ihr wisst nicht davon,
ihr kmmert euch nicht darum
und es berhrt euch nicht!
Ich sehe und nehme es hin: ein Verneintes
ist auch ein Verneintes. Ein Nein,
ein Nichts, ein Nihil.
Doch stndlich gehe ich
ins Warten hinein,
getragen von Hoffnung, Bange,
Zweifel und schwarzem Hirn.


Winde, die alles wegfegen und entleeren,
was an uns haftet, die das Leben blolegen,
als Unerahntes, Untraumbares, Ungedachtes.
Das Herz ist ein zerrissenes Ding und
die Seele ein Erkaltetes, ein Gleichgltiges.
Leere Straen und geleerte langwierige
Wege der halbierten Nacht!
Das schwarze Loch, das die furchtbar
fernen Tage in sich saugt,
die mich noch dazu verdammen,
sie in den Gebuden innerhalb
des Existenziellen zu suchen,
gepaart mit immer wiederkehrendem
Halbleben und nicht umgebrachter Sehnsucht.


Winde der Wste, die nun in unserem Leben
vorbeikommt, kurzen Augenblicks,
und wieder wegzieht, die bevlkerte
und kahle Erde hinterlassen.
Was noch hie und da verbleibt,
ist der Rest von Sand und Staub,
aufgewirbelt in den abgerissenen
Takelungen unseres Wracks,
gehalten von unfhlbarer Trauer.
Was ich dir in die Hand geben werde,
im Vertrauen an die vollkommene
Annahme des Wortes,
das geschieht in meiner Vorstellung,
die nie daran denkt, dass nicht nur
die Trauer allein mich trgt,
sondern ich auch noch die deine.


Winde, die sich von uns abwenden,
den Zerfall der Seele formen,
aber kaum noch beschleunigen
- auswrts zum Himmel, der sich nicht
entfernt und keinen Schutz mehr gebietet.
Gibt es noch ein Wort
aus der genannten Heimat? -
Die Erinnerung verursacht den inneren
Strom dessen, was vergeht und zugleich lebt.
Die Erinnerung! Ja, sie steigt ber das
Gestade der gebrochnen Seele,
verhindert sie zur Durchflutung
in entlegenen, nicht bekannten,
grausamen Gegenden.


Winde, die sich selbst tragen und berdauern
wie in der Zeit die Trauer,
die nachts durch das nackte Fleisch kommt,
wie die Besucherin unseres Krpers,
mittels der Dunkelheit und ohne Sprache,
ihn in die Verzweiflung treibjagt.
Wozu kann das Leben sein.
Vielleicht auch, um dasselbe Weitere
- das Dasein und das Wegsein
in den Sinn und in das Wort zu bringen.


Winde, die die Liebe
zum Verschwinden bringen, die
wie jedes menschliche Ereignis
in einem Leben
sich auf Missverstndnissen grndet.
Du hast mich aus dem blau
gewordnen Herzen verloren
und ich halte immer noch dein Abbild,
das Gebliebene der vergangenen Nchte,
fest an der offenen Brust,
die sich wie ein Fenster zum Ozean begibt,
dazwischen das Ufer des Lebens,
worin einiges frisch eingeritzt wird.


Winde, die in die Gegenden der Leerheit ziehen,
die seit Anbeginn des Lebens berall ist,
einst in unscheinbaren Drfern,
geschtzt von unendlichem Urwald,
nun in schwer beladenen Stdten des Unglcks,
eingepfercht in den Bauch des Zuchtschweins.
Das Herz ist ein menschlicher Stein,
der abtrgt. Und die Rede ist
von einem anderen goldenen Stein,
der unverwstlich ist wie das Wort.


Winde, die die Traurigkeit vom Nirgendwo
in das Leben herbringen,
die die elenden Leben
ins fleischerne Elend strzen.
Ein Elend ohne Zeit,
das mit der Zeit im Gleichschritt tanzt,
einander folgend im Takt des Todes.
Es wird nie genug von Mhsal sein!
Unser Krper ist die Verbannung
ins Unsgliche, die sich wie die Woge
des Schicksals ber alles hinwegsetzt.
Bis wann.


Winde, die das Leben,
Material gewordenen Traum,
Schmerz gewordene Lust,
in den Todesanfall mit den leisen Zuckungen
des Augenblicks verwandeln.
Ohne wirklich Abschied zu nehmen
vom wstenen Meer, dessen Wellen unentbehrlich
fr uns sind und sich ausdehnen.
Tag, der du dich glanzvoll und hell ffnet!
Gegenwart, die du gerade da bist,
kaum haltbar und nur das Schwinden
in dir trgt. Seid ihr da? Wo.


Winde, die die uralten Geschichten zurckholen,
die sehr fern waren
und dort nicht aufhrten zu brodeln.
Ihr Flstern lehrt uns vieles von wenigem,
was noch brigbleibt, rar wie
die Grser des Herbstes auf erdenem Grund,
worin begraben liegt die Umwandlung,
von Staub zu S


Desarrollado por: Asesorias Web