To Karl Borromaeus Heinrich
Over the white pond
The wild birds have migrated.
In the evening an icy wind blows from our stars.
Over our graves
The broken forehead of night bends.
Under oaks we sway in a silver boat.
Always the white walls of the city resound.
Under arches of thorns,
O my brother, we climb, blind clock-hands, toward midnight.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt