At last I can write to you three sons while the moon laughs.
And sends its balmy rays where darkness protects me.
Today the water flowed more sluggishly than usual; from the sky as hesitant tears, from the tap as a pulpy mass, from the river in my dream, as a twitching lindworm …
When your thoughts take hold of me, as dream, longing or damning judgement, perhaps as a memorabilian bridge … my life is proof of yours; love is beautiful.
Im Mahlstrom 