by Ingeborg Bachmann
My dear brother, when are we going to build a raft?
and ride down the sky?
My dear brother, soon the cargo will be too big
and we're going down
My dear brother, we draw on paper
many countries and rails.
Watch out for the black lines here
you fly high with the mines
My dear brother, then I want to be impaled
be tied and scream.
But you're already riding out of the valley of the dead
and we flee together.
Awake in the gypsy camp and awake in the desert tent,
the sand runs out of our hair
your and my age and the age of the world
is not measured by the years.
Let go of cunning ravens, of sticky spider hands
and not deceive the feather in the bush,
don't eat or drink in the Land of Cockaigne,
bills are foaming in the pans and jugs.
Only who at the golden bridge for the Carbuncle Fairy
still knows the word has won.
I have to tell you it's with the last snow
melted in the garden.
Our feet are sore from many, many stones.
one heals. with which we want to jump,
to the child king, with the key
to his empire in his mouth,
get us and we will sing:
It is a beautiful time when the date stone germinates!
Everyone who falls has wings.
It is a red thimble that hems the shroud of the poor,
and your heart-leaf sinks upon my seal.
We have to go to sleep, love, it's game over.
Tiptoe. The white shirts are billowing.
Father and mother say the house is haunted
when we switch breaths
Last updated October 31, 2022