Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
a poem by
Ewald Murrer
Musing, it seemed
he remembered
the obscure blows of hammers
muffled by a dream.
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II
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III
“I haven’t noticed
that I would also be inhaling visible energy”—
he pondered,
and morning in the streets,
the start of a day.
Trees in the same places, living
on legs swollen
by the centuries-old labor of standing.
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IV
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V
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VI
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VII
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PART 2
VIII
A rich harvest
from the barren field
where no one scythed.
The dungcart stood stilled,
overgrown with grass,
not departing.
Perhaps at night,
the time of revival,
it drove alone to the landscape
and watered
the seeds
dispersed by the wind.
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IX
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X
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XI
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prepared to set water to fire
and warm yourself with me.
I know well your astonished gaze
with which you watch
the clock
and the door
that will not open.
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XII
In the country
flat
trees walk
with birdclaws
instead of roots.
In nesting boxes
the plumoseness accrued.
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XIII
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XIV
It is a holiday,
our disease has been given a name.
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XV
A year ago,
a dog barked.
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XVI
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PART 3
XVII
It is cold,
eternal cold.
In each of my memories it is cold.
I am confined behind a door in the wall.
I hear voices.
The voice of a woman,
and a person with her too.
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XVIII
I cry in confusion.
The dark dissolves
and I am in a park,
I exist in a park.
Instead of grass a lake,
down the trees running
the blood of the morning coming.
To be so dark.
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XIX
If it were so dark.
Laughter peels from the walls,
mirthful dust falls onto the furniture,
dank joy rises from the corners.
I am in a house,
I exist in a house.
The house is warm, glowing,
the monotonous humming of the gas burning.
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XX
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XXI
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XXII
On the table
in the room
are cakes and tea,
hands.
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XXIII
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XXIV
I hold my sleep,
keeping to my dreams.
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XXV
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PART 4
XXVI
I expect a greeting,
not a reward.
A silent file of men wait for money,
and war is behind the door.
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XXVII
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XXVIII
— I’ll go nowhere,
sufficient a passing gesture.
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XXIX
To run,
not to serve the moment.
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XXX
He continued on,
and the way again rose,
again no one anywhere,
a difficult ascent.
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XXXI
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XXXII
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XXXIII
An unpleasant light,
and the oppressive drawing near.
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XXXIV
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XXXV
Attempting to flee,
the road offered no help.
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XXXVI
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PART 5
XXXVII
“Why am I here?”
he thought.
“Have my footsteps brought me here?”
Voicing these questions
he knew
his steps hadn’t led him to this end.
“What had, then?”
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XXXVIII
The age?
An age envious of footsteps in the streets?
Reveling in the shadows,
in the dark?
The age?
This being,
a magnetic pole amid the brow.
A pole human faces turn to.
The ruler of time.
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XXXIX
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XXXX
A cosmopolitan creature.
A creature from the town Love,
where dust fills the streets
and the people living there,
in uttering this name,
involuntarily form their mouths into a smile,
exposing their teeth,
and embrace one another,
so large is this Love,
with many millions of inhabitants.
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XXXXI
“I am in my ghetto,”
he thought,
and he was in a ghetto.
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