Horst Bienek
Morning of Ashes
Morning of ashes
caught in the lid of your eye
landscape
laid waste by memory:
Engraved on the retina
the shadow of a fleeing bird
the death of Harlequin
the lettering of the advertisements
a bottle in the lurking
green of absinthe
and the unmanned ships
that secretly forsake your breath
Morning of ashes
settles in your eyes
and despair senselessly tamed
wanders in the maze of your blood
Translated by Michael Bullock
Page(s) 68
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