I jump among the serious people
in front of the church, the café still closed
and I think even further back in time

In a late spring there was a ditch side here
yonder a mill, the ramparts and the crown
of the old Western

As if it were a thickly painted canvas
I wipe off layers of history
I expose peat diggers, see the wind

in the flowering swamp
over many seasons, everything flies
back into existence

Long hair of the mammoths
from the west, up to the ridge
on which human species tramp

It can be seen with a distant look
in the middle of the city
here where I stand