Jürgen Theobaldy
 

In the lightest of nights

A road has no end,
a frontier no grave.
A stone is a wing.
In the midst of the debris, flags of concrete.
The enlightening moment did not occur
in the lightest of nights.
A pair of spectacles was enough, a slip of paper
and a man in casual dress
leans into the darkness, and listens.

Those few, here, walk
through the lightest of nights
and will walk on
where they were shot
the day before.
So that one angel suffices
who, without letter from heaven,
before the dayshift still,
will step around the corner,
ahead of those hundreds of thousands,
into the glistening world.
 
 
 
 

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