The keys Poem by Michael Krüger

While cleaning up the shed
I found a little box of old keys,
heavy device with beautiful Assyrian beards.
Everyone dreams of another door
in another century,
of duels and hefty sausages.
One fits into a heart tired of love.
It could have known Bismark
or Fontane or a young lady
in a novel that did not end well.
Because it did not want any more locks
I carefully returned it.
The house breathed a sigh of relief.

Translated by Bradley Schmidt