Even before we came here
We knew the past for what it is
While dreaming of freeing the future from the clutches of peril
In the middle of the field of broken wings
Trembles the poplar tree, a warning right out of history
Right out of a Bertolt Brecht poem
Here, memories claim their permanence:
They are written into the victims’ glances
They are read without a lamp, by the daylight of history
During the early morning rubbing of the eyes
Some memories become musical
Like the eternal trembling of the Laba poplars
Thoughts wind up
The childhood music boxes
Filled by silent sounds
The silence weighs down
Sometimes as a first glance between lovers
Sometimes as a parting sigh accompanied by darkness
The silence almost always
Is the starting point of a return to self:
Marked by bits of anger and hope, marked by hope.