for Nathan Zach
Even these are lines of war
written while it rages, not far away, not close by
and we sit at an odd angle around a lamp-lit table
as they deck the doorways with palms
even this is a song unto God
that He may lower His gaze upon us worms and trample on us
loved and unloved ones alike.
Not a truce – a gift
for this lightning-struck land.
Sit in front of the window
look, but accept desperation:
there is truth in the moon that shines
though it does not rise shield-like against pain
it translates itself –
as I have just translated from the open facing the wall –
it simply links the desk to thought
in a wait that burns, but does not explain
and it torments every page in the air
with fir tree music, hostile lights.
( traduzione in tedesco di Irmela Heimbächer)