The ritual after work
in the dark at the end
of the evening twilight

The dim light of the low clouds
in 1883, when the nights in the country
were still black

The farmer stoops
poking a dry smell
from the weeds of the day

It lingers
in a plume of smoke
above the sparks

Lass Mücken mein Blut trinken
Um das Blut des Mondes
die Glühwürmchen im Garten

und die johlenden Kinder
irgendwo um ein Lagerfeuer herum
selbst zu genießen, bleibe ich hier

Hinten donnert ein Güterzug vorbei
wo einst Bisonhufe stampften

Meine Träume sind blind und namenlos
Sie scheißen auf der Stelle
und fressen, wenn ich weg bin

Ohne sie wäre es vielleicht einfacher
aber wenn ich sie schlafen sehe
ist alles in Ordnung

Hinten donnert ein Güterzug vorbei
wo einst Bisonhufe stampften

It starts in the little square
in the evening. Fresh air
The palms relax

Soft light from oil lamps
An owl calls, the snake-
charmer opens the baskets

blowing his whistle. Turmoil in the trees
a bird paradise. Slim
boys stretch themselves

The drum brings the wheel
in motion, a spider prince
puts his arms and legs

down on the tones of the flute
and dances around the time wheel
The snakes are raising

Just before I fall asleep
rolled up in my basket
the owl calls again

The rising water is unstoppable
no matter how often it breaks
into wide waves on the beach
The sun is half an hour

above the horizon, hand in hand
we walk in blowing clothes
into our evening off
My hair dances

In the boat at the end
of the pier we kiss
like teenagers, the water sloshes
and the sky turns orange

With my own eyes I see
the sun set, tack-sharp
and I can only think
that the earth ends there

as a worldwide disk
with an edge, an abyss
in which the red-hot sun
briefly blazes up the fire