‘DEN 20. JÄNNER GING LENZ DURCHS GEBIRG’
To be a bird in thought no dared intention,
while in the wood he held his left arm tight
when it would start to flap. His only right
As guest, his duty: proffering attention.
He proffered. Was the profferer. Surprised
at what he gave: his soul. In shady places
it lay like snow, maid, mother, outlined traces
of who had hosted it – a guest likewise.
If it soon melts, he thought, plants will start growing,
like me, the blossom, pollination, pledges
of fruit that with a crack will open wide.
He saw himself then as the inner edges
of many silences – not beyond knowing.
The birds stayed on the outside in the sky.
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