Night of the Forgotten
This man
with the hard words
in the night
without his voice
comes and calls you
you severed one of your arms
you, forgotten one
you cut off one of your breasts
you, forgotten one
he comes and calls you
you don’t have eyes anymore
you, forgotten one
he comes and calls you
you go,
forgotten one,
groping
into the black water wells
you don’t burn
your kiss
you don’t fall
in the well
you don’t control
your blood
when he leans
heavy over you
to take one of
his fingers
to make the nights
yours
to turn into dawn
whole again
beautiful again
the dawn
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Change of Times
Now that time has come, you have to be able
not only to fight for victory up to the end
but to endure it without conceit and wild joy
and more so to accept the timely defeat,
to admit it without humiliation and fake composure.
The others’ compassion and envy, the secret joy,
whatever form they might take, they enrich you
yet you never place responsibility on others
nor assume the whole responsibility yourself;
don’t look for good luck or postponements,
for unforeseen events which will always appear,
be careful especially for the hedonistic palindrome
between self-justification and self-condemnation.
You’ll come out of this a little wiser, if you only
learn to face all human things a bit more serenely.

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Nostalgia
The melodic lines of the statue of Nike
standing in the middle of the square
still sing in my ears as a blonde
woman with straw hair talks
in a tone I cannot follow
yet I listen attentively for reasons
of civility as dusk embraces
my thoughts about success and
lots of money, time to have some,
and when she will try to touch me, I’ll
be re waiting for my chance,
yearning for my new day to start
in the peaceful serenity of old age
and promise that next time
I shall aim in the same direction
before dusk comes with its purple colours

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