II
at the stage where you expect the ship
on the lusty isle we saw the swans
their throats entwined
fled out of tuebingen from assertations
by a mediocre man
ten years later i stand up to the knees
in the lernaic swamp
has heracles shed tears?
it is true my love in the au-garden we
often were close to the nightingale
in the same bushes
no footprints in the sand we did not step
upon
and somebody counted the steps with us
when we climbed up to amyclae
low enough the railing there to hold you
and to fly away is what you wanted as well
to the sounds of the centaur's horn when
on sundays the ponds are running over
and the waters rush down artificial cliffs
to the lac
and fast as roses transitory the day not
of the confession or hands pressed
began at the delta which hangs into the lake
nor the kisses stricken out for the sake
of consideration we know exactly the place
what was it you pressed with uncut quill
into the page
so that nobody read it it be then with dust of gold
where all holy places of the earth are
assembled around one place
virgil's tomb seen by ardinghellus
now under a female sun onto forests instead
of a sea-embraced kalaurea
where before witnesses your names are
written next to each other in the book
ah god who knows after all what it means?
the sea could be seen from the beach a
light sky above it
in the foreground but out of rembrandt's
evening landscape
one of the two sinks the head into lethe
and even the times of day by claude lorrain
have long since moved elsewhere
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