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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