come morning I stroke the nightingale.
confined in a paper clock.
or to be more precise: in a cage covered with a rag.
he is mine and I am his
winding device.
there is solidarity bulging between us
like between children
who’ve been burned by jellyfish
at a seaside summer camp.
at noon we fly towards the cleavage of day
towards the wings of a melted sun.
while down below earthlings
creep, scuttle and skulk
planting cabbage or some other vegetable
and inserting roughly cut stakes
deep into the ground.
here every poem is an ode to the Almighty?
all-rightie!
Translated by the author