Your first mother has folded you back into her body.
The wind banging the shore like a wet tent,
ropes ready to fly, canvas heavy.
Rain and seawater one. A green sea, broken.
A slice of disbelief tipping, chalk and wet trees.
Seelenlandschaft.
Do not look into the eyes of the morning, nor provoke,
outstretched hands would be a sort of salvation,
but there is little more than
the last falling and an ending.
You will now be rested.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem