THE CHILDLIKE QUESTION
A childlike question surfaces again:
what became of the extinguished flame,
where did it leap to in its yellow dress,
followed by shadows?
Nothing’s wholly annihilated, it merely changes places.
The wind huddles and rests for a while
on its way to different weather.
And I am crossing a cemetery
on my way to the metro.
Lamented by black cast-iron tears,
mourned by a wife and two children
here rests customs toller Otto Herman Pauli
died 1852.
April now, seven years to the next century.
The frost has gone from the soil.
If annihilation did not exist
I ought through my sandal’s thin soles feel
how the dead are breathing.
So as not to commit an act of misconduct
the vicar must repeat next Sunday
that Someone is ‘truly risen’.
In his glass cage halfway towards heaven
the crane operator has a greater overview than we do.
With his long arm he stacks apartment on apartment
By autumn the block will be finished.
Further on, when the wallpapers have faded,
the childlike question will surface once again:
what became of the extinguished flame,
where did it leap to in its yellow dress,
followed by shadows?
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