November 4, 2018 § Leave a comment


One doesn’t know how certain nights end,

a clock bell might ring,

a bed side might turn cold,

a dream might feel like yesterday.

The heavy eyes aren’t heavy anymore,

the book is getting thinner at the wrong side.

Counting hours is no help,

only the whisper of a slow song.

(24 August)


The soundless night is that of sorrow,

that one with heavy curtains

and covered mirrors.

No matter how hard you try,

you can’t remember your favourite song,

the words are missing, the tune is failing

to break through your inner wall.

(29 August)



I set the clock back to find the words

and then again forward to lose them.

I‘m the night itself, the dusk, the dawn.

I count the hours faster and they’re past

I count them slower to make them last.

(9 September)


The Night Moving

How does the night move?
There must be a moment
when it moves over your body.
You are half night, half day then,
you are a sister to the moon,
a brother to the deep sea,
half of you mourns the dying stars,
the other half worships the burning.
You like the chill, you need the warmth,
a blackbird sings at both sides.
The night and half of you
moves then away.

Published in Zócalo Public Square (14 September 2018)

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