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A Man's Disclosure

The year was beautiful and won't return.
You knew what I wanted, always, and leave.
And though I wish I could explain it to you,
I hope you wouldn't understand me.
 
Sometimes, I advised you to break up with me,
I thank you for staying until today.
You knew me and did not get to know me.
I was afraid of you because you loved me.
 
Perhaps, you think I betrayed you.
Surely, you think I'm not how I used to be.
And yet, I never lied to you!
Although you're crying.
 
Sometimes, my coldness angered you.
I have to tell you, you were clever then.
Although I had the corresponding feelings,
They never were strong enough.
 
You think that sounds as though I were praising myself
And proudly stood on some pedestal.
I only stood far from you, not on top.
You're angry with me because you're leaving.
 
There are others who feel like I do.
We're so much poorer than you are.
We don't seek, we're only ever found.
When we see you suffer, we're consumed with envy.
 
You're lucky

November

Alas, this month is wearing the black ribbon...
Storm rode jeering through the land of colours.
The forests wept. And the colours died.
Now the days are grey as never before.
And november wears the black ribbon.
 
The cemetery opened up its dark gate.
The last wreaths are being peddled.
The living visit their dead.
In the chapel a men's choir mourns.
And november wears the black ribbon.
 
You know what you owned after you lost it.
Winter is already sitting on the bare twigs.
It rains, friends. And the rest is silence.
Who did not die yet has it coming.
And november wears the black ribbon.
 

The Sadness Everyone Knows

You know from the start how it'll go.
You certainly won't feel cheerful before tomorrow morning.
And no matter how drunk you get,
the bitterness, you can't wash it down.
 
The sadness comes and goes without any reason at all.
And you're filled with nothing but emptiness.
You're not sick. And not healthy either.
It's as though your soul is unwell.
 
You want to be alone. And then again you don't.
You lift your hand and want to beat yourself up.
In front of the mirror, you think, “That's your face?'
Oh, no tailor could iron such wrinkles.
 
Perhaps you've dislocated your mind?
The stars suddenly resemble freckles.
You're not sick. You just feel hurt.
And consider everything impossible, no matter what it is.
 
You want to get away and can't find anywhere to hide.
Unless you let yourself be buried.
Wherever you look, a dark spot appears.
You'd like to be dead. Or have reasons.
 
You know the sadness will soon resolve itself.
It disappears as often as it comes.
Sometimes you're down and sometimes you're up.
The souls become tame over and over again.
 
One person nods and says, “That's the way life goes.”
The other shakes his head and cries.
Whoever is sad should be sad without resisting!
Should that be any consolation? It wasn't meant to be.
 

Silent Visit

His mother was visiting recently.
But she could only stay for two days.
And she had to write postcards.
And he read from a thick book.
 
He really wasn't very attentive.
He looked at the buses
and the golden pavilions by the river
and the steamer that floated past.
 
His mother held her head down.
And she was writing to his father just then:
“Tonight we're going to the theatre.
Erich was given two tickets.”
 
And he pretended to be busy reading.
But he saw near and far,
saw the sky and ten thousand stars
and the old woman sitting under it.
 
Lonely, she sat next to her son.
Smiled quietly. Without knowing it.
The city and the stars were like backdrops.
And the pub chair was like a throne.
 
He was moved by the image. He looked away.
When she writes to me, he couldn't help thinking,
she'll lower her head just like that.
And then he read. And didn't understand a word.
 
His mother sat at the table and wrote.
Earnestly, she put on her glasses
and the pen scratched in the silence.
And he thought: God, I love her!
 

April

Rain tinkles with on finger
the green melody of Easter.
The year is getting older and daily younger.
Oh, contradiction full of harmony.
 
Moon in its golden jacket
hides behind the cloud store.
Its left cheek is swollen, poor thing,
feeling slightly ridiculous.
Again march has achieved its goal:
the moon was sent into april.
 
And already the bunnies are hoppinng
with brushes and tubes
and sniffing noses
out of caves and holes
through gardens and streets
and across the lawns
into stables and rooms.
 
There they lay eggs, as if it was nothing
made of nougat, brittle and marzipan.
The bravest one lays a box of chocolates,
as he stares resolutely into space.
Boxes of chocolate are easier said than done.
 
Then they start painting. That takes hours.
Afterwards silken ribbon are bound.
And hiding places are searched for. And hiding places are found:
Behind the oven, under the couch,
inside the wall clock, on the corridor,
behind the shack, beneath the pear tree,
inside the hall clock, on the cupboard.
 
Then the rooster is crowing for the morning!
Poof, the bunnies are gone.
A gable window is shining in the wall.
A man is leaning against the garden gate and yawns.
Over the hills runs a green fire,
along the bushes and up the poplar trees.
Spring, he's thinking, is coming again this year.
He does not sense wonder nor adventure,
because he has lost his sense of wonder.
 
Isn't there a little brush lying in the grass?
Even this does not make the man wonder.
He doesn't even notice that the Easter Bunny
lost it on his way home.
 

January

The year is small and still lies in the cradle.
Santa Claus went home into his forest.
But it still smells like doughnuts on the staircase.
The year is small and still lies in the cradle.
One stands by the window and is getting slowly old.
 
The blackbirds are cold.
And the crows starve.
And also humans are having trouble.
The empty fields long for sheaves.
The world is black and white and without colors.
Und wishes so hart to be yellow and blue and red.
 
Surrounded by children like the pied piper
January is dancing proudly on the ice.
The buzzard flies its circles tight and tighter.
You hear the days were getting longer again.
you do not notice. But still it is true.
 
The clouds bring snow from faraway countries.
And noone stops them and asks for customs duties.
New Year's Eve you can hear in on all the radio stations,
That even below the skies many a thing would change
And, except us, much will get better.
 
The year is small and still lies in the cradle.
And yet it is one-hundert-thousand years old.
It dreams of peace. Or does it dream of war?
The year is small and still lies in the cradle.
And dies in one year. And that is soon.
 

July

Silent is resting the town. The corridor is heaving.
The humanity is
travelling.
or is wandering or is just strolling.
And the farmers rent the nature
for worth seeing prices.
 
They rent the sky,
the sand at the sea,
the Place music of the local fire fighter department
and the view on the cow on the meadow
Limousines racing back and forth
and don't find and find the way anymore
to the lost paradise.
 
In the field grows bread. And it grows there
also the future rolls and pretzels.
Lizards twitch from place to place.
And the clouds bring rain on board
and the sharp lightning and the thunder word.
Man makes mountain and water sports and does not keep a lot of
puzzles.
 
He thinks the world is a picture book
with postcard series
The Landscape is smiling at the visit
It knows that it will survive the time even
the Holiday.
 
It also knows: A
stone throw from
here starts the
fairy tale.
Hidden in the grain, on pushed poppy, rests a disheveled couple.
Here don't is rising a price, here don't is falling the loan
Here are rise and falling the larches.
 
The girl sleeps with
delighted face.
The bees are buzzing satisfied.
The young man is still called good-for-nothing.
He passes through the grid of the shadow and light in the forest and goes through the end of
the poem,
like in old times direct to the south
 
The Translation is ©Achampnator so before using it ask for permission

In case of a source field link belongs the Translation to the Copyright Owner where the link goes to

June

Time moves with the times: it flies.
One barely wrote six poems
And half a year has passed
And feels like history.
 
The cherries turn ripe and red,
The sweet ones as well as the sour.
On tender leaves dust falls, dust falls
As much as we regret it.
 
Grass turns to hay. Fruits to compote.
Splendor becomes food.
Some things the heart learned
Turn, in the best case, to wisdom.
 
It becomes and was. It was and becomes.
Calves become cows
And, because it belongs to this time of the year,
Kisses become babies.
 
The birds feed their brood
And sing only rarely now.
That's how it is in our world,
The best of all worlds.
 
The evening steps late into the park,
With stars on its vest.
Fireflies move with lampions
To a garden party.
 
There is drinking and laughing there.
In the late hours then
The evening dances with the night
A short lap of honor.
 
At the last table there is a dispute
Between a heathen and a pious man,
If wonders exist or not.
And next thing you know, it's summer.