Still at dawn
Light needs to be drained
From the wells of memory
And to be careful
Not to have the left leg’s big toe smoldered
By the boulder blooming with pain
Mornings are usually congested
But the wet nodes of life
Cunningly crawl after the last rays of sunlight
As a snack, a piece of bread and a tad of butter
A smile, here and there, always mandated
As death’s companion when it finally comes
The black locusts at the gate
Have been astonished since the Middle Ages:
The city air was freeing, then.
The hoe does not plow through
The furrows of redemption
As they consume past and former joys
In the highest echelon of cynicism:
Arbeit macht frei
So there is no rain, for there to be sunshine after the rain.