The
balloonists
See the tall man in the
top-hat there.
He leans out with a
gaze fixed westwards.
It’s early morning, and
the light reverberates.
The town with its clocks
waits in the distance
the church spires cast
blue shadows aimlessly.
It is completely
silent, pre-departure.
Close to, the balloon
is huge, like some giant pumpkin
that gleams and grows,
it has many colours.
The hum of those who
watch: a swarm of bumblebees,
they call out, wave to
the voyagers in the basket,
who feign indifference,
will not let on their destination.
They’re motionless themselves
and ready for their trip.
The man in the top-hat
has still not ceased to gaze
and lifts a telescope
of gleaming brass
as if he searched for
clouds or something that’s invisible.
When they ascend they
will diminish to a point
until they reach the highers
layers of air and snow,
the whitest snow that
chills and blinds
will fill the air they
breathe, will touch their foreheads.
In autumn it can be
seen to fall as frost
the breath of upper
air that gropes across the fields,
and you one autumn
when the frost falls early
will suddenly recall
them and their trip,
and how they still are
climbing, dizzily yet higher
through a thinner air
than that of winters
with a note like that
of splintering glass
from forest depths of brittle
rain
and how they rise yet
higher through the years
until the very memory
sings like slivvered glass.
– and is unbearable,
forget me, rather something else!
A pleasure trip, a
connoisseurs’ adventure!
A gentleman, light morning-coat
and bright-blue waistcoat,
that slowly makes a
glove-embellished gesture.
It is free, already it
begins to rise,
the cheering imperceptibly sinks down.
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