Draft of a religious memorandum
if one is to believe theologians of earlier times
in a state of eternal bliss
and can therefore not be affected
Now that’s a pity. Otherwise
he could have learnt something
particularly about his own activity.
there has been an earthquake in China
the upper glass-window of the kitchen’s
antique grandfather clock swings open.
An occult phenomenon? Seismic sympathy?
Or one of those meaningless gestures
with which the world grimaces
a nasty, stupid little boy in a playground,
who has to mess with us at any price
organ’s deep pedal point
is not the keynote
wisdom out of
Morning down by Hörende lake
like a host of reproaches
begins to look like an assertion
Lively snowfall over
falls like an ironic comment
over past philosophers’ graves
in what is practically
a continuous winter twilight.
One of them was a kind of market-crier
the second was a sway-pole artist
the third kept a look-out on street corners
That era is over now. Here this snowfall thickens.
And these pages lack writing.
blest the souls
in their pilgrim throng.
we go to
paradise with song!
form a throng.
in this the
soul’s glad pilgrim song
to the wond’ring
sweet was from
soul to soul its sound:
for us a
saviour now is found!
yet again a kind of morning.
through many narrow chinks.
join in and form a chorus.
From the bazaar of old tower clocks
As if cut out of
To the light whirring, like swallows
More clocks the more the day proceeds.
Here everything now happens very quickly;
The birds stiffen in the trees.
The old wood-turning chisels that slept
beneath blankets of cobwebs
The sort of wood that has waited
a very long time under water
deep asleep in its loneliness
and only friends with the channel’s movement
that constantly imitates itself.
You great trees, you once green friends,
why do you stand so naked now?
As if cut out of
moves with fluttering sail
into an absent-minded twilight:
harsh answer to our address:
In the trees the birds stiffen now
and become their own shadows