Dance of death Poem by Norbert Hummelt

fear of the dark is not the whole story. we hardly
know each other and don't really want much more,
the long hot summer is over and the only traffic jam
was near cologne but going in the other direction.
the barn is in the haze, the drizzle of the flat land.
It's not often that I'm the one who puts the music on.
we know each other so well and are becoming more
and more like strangers. the old score is all that stays
put in our minds. this is nothing for gentler spirits, the
racket, the posing, and the quantities of beer, but once
I found in all of this many tender wonders, and if they
came back I'd have no objection. fear of the dark leaks
from all the speakers, the lighting console can do no-
thing on its own; there's no disco ball, no dry ice. only
one song in five is still able to get our legs twitching,
but there's no more sparkle in our eyes .. if only the fog
were to come into the barn and enfold the dancing fig-
ures: in the haze, the drizzle of the flat land images are
flitting; but only the dance of the dead can be so wild.

translated by Catherine Hales