… like a lily in the snow

Autumn Child

born, when the chestnuts fell.

Where the river widens

I enjoy the hour

under red stripes of sky,

when the smell of fallen apples rises from the grass.

The herbs of summer are still fragrant.

On the dike bench with lichens in the wood

I delay the night.

Travel backwards

At the train station in Unterwellenborn, the years merge into an instant. From platform 1 there are still trains to Saalfeld and Gera like Christmas 1988, when you took me to your mother for the first time. There was snow on the birches on the railway embankment.

I close my eyes and find myself in your arms, look into your face under the Che Guevara cap, framed by brunette curls and a full beard. We kissed the train closer. Snowflakes dabbed watermarks on your leather jacket. Now, in summer, to taste love is like awakening a frozen rose.

Red Mountain

In the morning, my views fly down to the valley with the swallows and are caught by the forest. Ghosts rise from the fir trees. Downstairs, the chimney smokes as it did in grandfather's time. Between roasting furnaces and cooling towers runs the street where steel was poured when your father drove in for his shift. In the past, soot colored the village of maxhüttengrey. Today, houses have been replastered and gardens are blooming. Children swing by the pond. Where the department store stood, senior citizens live in the home.

Now I don't know what piece of land your fathers owned. I have driven up the steep road from Unterwellenborn and I'am standing next to brown and white cows on lush pasture. If it belongs to them, everything is fine.

On the ridge, young people meet in the shade of the bushes. A guy whizzes past me on the rear wheel of the moped. At his age, you had to pick stones from the field with Grandpa Paul. You have only seen earth and stones. Stones and earth. Snack with sausage at the edge of the field near the wild cherry trees. When the sun moved over treetops, it went downhill.

In the evening I came back via the Ironstreet and set up my hiking chair on the slope. My gaze travels across the field to the Kulmberg and the lights of Saalfeld. Grandmother Moon swims as a silver crescent between the clouds. In this hour, I enjoy what you have been looking past: the glow of the mountains flowing into each other.

Schwarza Valley

Have drank of your air,

feasted on your torrent.

You wanted to show me

where water jumps over whirlpool heads.

I am overcome by a longing,

because you don't walked near to me.

The Schwarza carries your hours

from earlier times.

If it weren't for your grave,

I would call for you and be sure

that you  appear.