when i write a poem about a place where i am staying, i sometimes copy it on a small piece of paper and hide it somewhere where people may or may not find it. who knows who may read this one unexpectedly some day.
the - quite literal - translation of the poem pictured:
my tender son of seven months
we travelled to the south
the saturday evening bells were chiming
over the donkeys and the apple trees
you cried for your own bed
you wanted everything just like home
we picked summer flowers
we showed you the poppies, the sparrows, the blackbirds
we carried you through the singing fields
you sighed yourself to sleep on my breast
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