For J.H.
There is no place
for the restless. Art
will not come home again,
its hiding-place knows no time
For every ambush
a hop, step and a jump, a
hazardous stint in the daring
dark
How many notes lose
their footing, what turmoil
soughs on: we caress shrill
strings
A rip has gouged out
beauty in canvas, in the street
a can of coke kicked
into a sculpture lies muted,
Nothing asks for a plinth
We croon dissonances
in the trees now it is getting
late and on the evening lake
the madness of the moon
once again is mirrored
in us
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem