The rabbit motionless at its hole in the grass
like an etching by maestro Albrecht.
As if the meek had been posted
to guard the path to the lower world.
Scare it off! The land without matter
belongs here around my tailor’s cottage.
Nature is an open book
where the writing conceals the real writing –
in the opinion of the great mystic. Ergo:
cut out what is randomly written with scissors,
especially the white soundless butterflies
which entice the lavender to flower.
The sky that seems to be about to burst
is held together for one hour still by the
thoughtless stitches of the swallows. Rip them out!
Perhaps though the strength of the landscape comes
from the sea breathed in the tops of the ash-trees.
Cut out the sea too! And the trees.
Cut out even the thought of sea and tree.
Finally the evening is silent and white
and everything that is
is.
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