Nothing would be farther from reality, they say, these hunts
signs of invisible, who feel as dowsers
scroll sources
clear where everyone can see but not
dark stone and mud. But poetry, their faces
ocher
pierced by arrows and endless skies reflected in the remains of transparent
battles, is the last place left where
said, however - say
its truth, small or large
it does not matter. We can not be all
yet, you see, the world
not be what it is without
us, without this white
of cherry trees that sank in the night, the wind
speaking through these branches
blacks in the deep blue.
25.05.2010
