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Renate Sattler

Neues aus dem Geschichtenkorb

News from the basket of stories






 Grey is the stone to my feet

 in the park at the Elbe, Madina.

 The wild apple tree throws a blossom to me

 on my foot as you say:

 „I want to go home to bury my brother.

 He was supposed to take care for the ruins,

 when the fire of the militia tore open sky and sand.

 Fellows sank on the column butts,

  wounded Saleh fled to the hospital.

  Never before there was so much blood

  on the floors and in the rooms of death

  than on this day in May in Palmyra.

  Do you hear, sister? Do you hear Saleh‘s children moan?

  I must bury him and water the olive trees.“


 I hear it sister, look,

 the stone to my feet

 changes colour.


(From the cycle: "The Lamassu")



Bath in the Sea, Cyprus


Bay of Catalkoy

Between rocks – the sea, cut half-round into the land.

Date palms line its shores which foam crowns lick.

Gentle the waves look when they come from the blue width,

however, already the first one knocks me down.

Salted water I spout, but I do not give up,

throw me between two waves and get raised.

handed on, run over in the end.

sea plays with me, refuses me to breathe,

presses salt into my eyes.

Under the water arch I get an idea

how drowning may be.


Golden Beach


No softer carpet – than the sand in the Mediterranean Sea,

that the light splits in honeycombs,

on which I look while wading through crystal clear water.

No fish, no crab meet me,

the dark spots of the mountain splinters I avoid.

In the bay with the church of the apostle on the rock -

a landmark for castaways,

I swim in Poseidon’s four-poster bed.


Here, where cape Apostolos Andreas

like a spearhead stings to Latakia into the sea,

which rests like a dish in the shell of the earth

and promises never again to devour a rubber boat.


(From the cycle „On Caravan Roads“)