August is the stargazing month, full of hopes, dreams and maybe, a little bit vacation. Another four poems…
Stars rise and sink in the high firmament.
If you watch them calmly at night,
you will find fleeting shooting stars
and poles of tranquillity that hardly change
as the weeks and moons pass by.
You might want to choose
your favorite one wisely.
The brightest stars are
not always the most reliable.
even the great sun at noon
is merely a tiny light
in the infinite cosmos.
* * *
Dance of Life
I am dancing alone through a world that has gone wrong,
Through a world that is out of joint,
Through a world that knows no purpose.
I am dancing alone over flower meadows,
Through unicorn-forests and silent midsummer’s nights,
I am dancing alone in the waking,
Only my dreams are filled; with monsters.
This is a world of the mighty,
Those who are brutal and without conscience,
Brazen people will be rewarded.
It’s a world for barbarians and fools,
A world that knows nothing about dancing.
It is a question of balance and prudence.
If you don’t want to fall or step
On the feet of others,
You need both: heart and mind
And a sence for true art.
But rare are the people who have music in their heart.
And when they do so, they are much too old to dance.
* * *
Over all these years, I have become used
To staying in a desert where nothing thrives.
What you plant here will perish in misery.
You won’t make any friends here.
There are snakes and scorpions and spiders:
Creatures that discourage life, only.
And only the high starry sky
That outshines the sand at night,
This ascetic illumination –
Gives me a little bit hope
That this being here is more
Than just dust and thirst.
Where there is hoping, there is future and
If no one else does, you’ll have to do it yourself.
* * *
In the end, it doesn’t matter what we felt,
What we felt and what we shared in distant dreams.
Time is over now and far the space that
One could hardly ever think to overcome.
Truly: It is bitter, stony like a rock, to be
Without faith in „us“ – a mental construct?
Wisdom, constructed, selfmade and mixed with
Tootling phrases that dead poets once scattered.
Can you truly live if always only adoring
„here“ and „now“ and your own ego’s deity?
Little Deva: Something’s sick about society
When pure selfishness becomes a virtue
And those who care are called idiots.
You can coronate yourself, that’s true, but –
A wealth to which truth and justice are sacrified
Is nothing more than bitter spiritual poverty.
You can still gold-plate and still gild your heart:
But once it is dead, you are no longer alive,
You are not human any more…
* * *