Wishing to live
in the city without
its burden, above

the chimneys, cleanly
swinging in grandma's chair
in front of the bay window

seeing the dormant mouths
of the pocked roofs
wake up without

having to smell their poison
and then also breathe it
out of solidarity with everyone

who has to live fast
in the stone world
where everything is hard

After our working day we look
at the Beautiful World, where
duties and rules do not apply
and the Stars can shine

We look up to them
We see that it exists
and that is a comfort, especially
if there is something to gossip about

There may be more
than admiration, entertainment
conveniences and wealth, but
that doesn't buy me anything

Certainly not happiness
if one is not as rich
as the Stars are
made by us

Magical powers bubbling up
from retorts of cellar alchemists
or vibrant in the blue blood

of sons of sons of grand princes:
old whispered secrets
and the dream of mastery

but only disappointments
have been found, poisoning
and the immortal superstition

in golden chromosomes
which want to live exclusively
once awakened

from their generation-
long slumber, germinated
in the age of germination

Gold mined in the golden age
Justice to be won in a new age
And grace in the age of grace

We still pretend

we have it well arranged
with parliaments, judges and
a constitution of our ideals
but the farmers have stayed

and we are their servants
who grow capital, harvest
and squeeze it to many zeros
in the backyard of the slaughter

We want full barns
for the winter, but we have to
pay dearly for it to the farmers
who write the plans

with rings of self-confidence
on their clean hands
in the high state-rooms
of the front building on the avenue