There are two ways of looking at things.
Neither of them bares the weight of the other.
Dreams being fears bring afternoon tears
afraid of the evening clutter.
In a world where peace of mind is a piece of self
as are long walks to the persistence of woodpecker in the morning
are a care, relief, among the trees along the borders of the river Vechte – twelve,
to be presice, some of them towering over while others are mourning.
And somewhere, somehow in the distance
the echoes of ruins amplify a cry for help,
and I cannot sleep as all who asleep are indifferent,
and I want to be part of the brave.
In concrete terms concrete destroys.
As so does injustice, segregation, I’m torn
between pillars of conflict that cometimes conjoin
and I float, on the river, my stanzas forlorn.
