PAN IN THE REEDS Poem by Norbert Hummelt

how this hot wind, scirocco, brings it all to a standstill
.. muddy ground, reed, roots, everything's so sluggish
and has an olive-grey tint so that everyone's groaning
in the heat just like the time I was in palermo, at daybreak,
in the first bar, when the espresso brought me back to life;
when I couldn't sleep knowing that wherever I go I must
die. so I couldn't go into the capuchin crypt, to the mummies,
skulls and skeletons. I wanted to go to the sea again instead
and pretend I could close my eyes, wind, warmth, waves
all around me, fading, and swaying .. are we the first ones in
the small bay? are you coming swimming with me? the water's
not deep. but there's someone sitting there already before us
in the reeds, his bare back turned to us. it's probably best that
we don't disturb him now: this is the guy the dog belongs to,
the hound. but he doesn't notice us, has an earplug in. you
call out to me: don't swim too far from the shore. but I can hear
singing inside me again .. now there are twining plants under
my feet. there's a flash before my eyes: the dragonfly. two,
three more strokes, it doesn't hurt much now. how soon I can
see my whole life pass, and then I'm no longer touching ground.