Just in nowhere in the middle
do I hear a being's fiddle,
nothing else: no cries, no sighs.
And I see a vapour rise
and the abyss at my feet,
where the ghosts in darkness meet,
without torches, without light,
nowhere bridges are in sight,
clouds devour the ways to go,
only shadows form a row,
trembling, changing, quickly shrinking,
shaking, jerking, downward sinking,
just above the groundless ground,
dancing to the fiddler's sound.
What he plays is quite confusing,
hopeless, cheerful and amusing,
cruel, tender and atrocious,
tilted, foolish and ferocious:
any song played with precision,
but there is no repetition ...
When the dream has gone away,
still the music wants to stay.
Waiting for the final dart ...
I will keep it in my heart.
February l6th, 2o17
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Inge Hoppe-Grabinger. Published on e-Stories.org on 02/16/2017.