Garret Poem by Mirko Bonné

Trees, scents,
life insurances
wander across the tables.

The shop assistant smiles,
she has the lips of a singer.
And a young gentleman whispers to her:
I'll write to you.

But who still believes
the old wive's tale of mail?
All letters are invented!

Our words were too long
on our travels.
It's time for visits again.

Yet anyone who calls gets a fright -
because I live in a garret,
it's as cramped as the basket of a hot-air balloon.

I once even wanted to move to a raised hide-out.
Only cows in a mist
can calm one's soul.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock