Attempt for a contact ad (attempt for a translation, too)
6.VIII.77
I -
love
the music
of Miles Davis,
some books
of Hesse and Mann,
some pictures
of Picasso and Beckmann,
am interested in
the incomprehensible,
that works in
and outside of us,
have experienced
love and grief,
happy man,
am very curious at him,
who I
will be ever and ever anew,
at her,
whom I will love,
who will love me,
heavenly happy
and deadly sad,
what a delight to live,
breathlessly looking.
Well, I will take a second chance. I got no idea, but this one doesn't address
the other person good enough.
Funny to leave myself to the events, nice!
7.VIII.77 I
The world
is enigmatic, beautiful,
all my senses
are wide awake and open,
I dream of the beauty,
that I sink into,
taking roots,
to blow up being,
to shout desire and delight,
to dance and to paint,
I know,
we will certainly meet.
I'm writing poems, don't I?
7.VIII.77 II1
You beauty,
that I'm looking for,
blind
with closed eyes:
It's you that I will love,
a bottomless spring of delicious water,
to quench the thirst thousands of times,
the more often the better
a whole lifetime,
as you will love me.
To dizzy heights we will climb,
and fall,
delight and grief
will be our fare.
We will relish it.
I write poems!
7.8.77 II2
Loved one,
I'm shouting for you,
for you is my crying:
I'm totally lost!
You took me by the hand,
together we walked the great dreams,
to endure the temptations,
you said: "The next time"
when jumping failed.
Years went by
till I noticed your endlessness,
never was I afraid
of the future with you:
We climbed so high already,
the higher we came,
the more lay before us.
What infinite happiness
broken to pieces.
7.VIII.77 III
Sorrow. I'm mourning.
I mourn for the loved one,
my one and only,
my love. She,
she has left me,
and I don't
know why.
Well, yes,
she wasn't well off,
the poor one,
things went over her head,
she couldn't go further,
could just run away.
Impossible
to run from oneself;
didn't you know?
Now all is dead,
burnt. Oh no,
her scent left behind,
the sweet one,
nourishes desire,
remembrance,
keeps flaring the holy flames,
alive the love,
now without hope.
You too, I sure know,
look back,
prisoner of your doings.
Alas, you're not well off, loved one,
and an end of the pain
falls back more and more.
How bad may things come finally?
You will yet get to know that,
fright and fear,
terror and dismay,
that you thought being alien to.
You need that,
you had the urge
just as strong
as I.
All the best for you, loved one,
you had to walk your path
just as I had.
When
how
will we meet again?
7.VIII.77 IV
It's a long time ago.
Or rather shortly?
We lived,
year after year,
one for the other,
man and woman,
united in love,
hardly knowing.
And over night -
all past.
Can you conceive that,
how can that be?
Did we know each other,
each one himself?
Talking, simply opening,
without protection
and proviso
surrender to the other
even silently,
that we couldn't do.
Did we fear
too little understanding,
enveloping,
healing,
born from love,
that we didn't take trust?
Now the die is cast,
click - clack.
3.XI.77 I
Boyish contemplation
I cry and quail
rubbing my sore heart
in unappeased yearning
for your.
My love is based firm -
why am I not sure?
Life is not game of chance:
Whatever I experience
has meaning and points ahead,
backwards.
Patience and permanence, waiting
for the day of the warrior.
My life is great, makes rich,
life was and is a gift,
in any way a wonder,
grace.
How weak to mistake this.
He calls that: Taking easy, folly.
3.XI.77 II
Ah Erika, your beauty is by way supreme!
From head to foot, I'm charmed utmost,
inflaming more each and every year -
and even now, not seen such a long time,
I mean to feel your sweet, tender skin,
pure, warm, living to my hand,
that caresses fondly your limbs,
your slender arms, delicate shoulders,
feels the long curved neck, beautiful head,
I follow thy eyes, those big, brown ones,
your mouth, two lips, firm and pure,
finding small nests in your collar-bones, your armpits,
and then: This wonder of your breasts,
ever enjoyable present, to see and to caress,
nipples wonderful with large and dark a court,
two hillocks firm and soft and velvety,
to stagger to and fro with eye, mouth and hands,
that wander farther, feeling ribs under tender fatty tissue,
play a while delightful with that small, not too small belly,
stay a while on hips and waist,
until at last they glide across
to that wunderful back, sweet buttock,
another two mountains, flesh,
enchantment, seemingly unique,
then thy thighs, big and firm like womankind -
I still see you how you bend opening the drawer,
knees kept straight, thighs closed firm,
you rest a while, choosing seems not easy,
there I see your rich formed buttock being tight and small now,
a frame to look through your thighs
at the dark and soft and tender vault,
only slightly hairy the lips of your opening:
Never ever will I forget that sight!
But of that kind nothing can be seen
when in my arms you lie,
the belly down, touching thy waist,
curly hair I meet,
a comfortable feeling, the wood seduces to slight pressure,
gentle a hill comes to meet,
I do feel you, my body nestles to your body,
whilst my eye looks at your eyes, at your face,
I slightly kiss your nose, your lips, your ears
and in my mind I see the complete beauty of your body,
slender elegance of legs, narrow feet,
small, long hands, see you dance and move,
wrapped up in darkness:
Are you here, really here with me?
Far off you are,
in your gloomy castle;
with knights and squires, fairies, dwarfs,
me I am the awkward knocking at the door,
in vain! For him they will not open.
But you too, sitting in the frigid throne hall,
suffer,
cannot surrender to my tender touching,
letting melt your bulwarks, walls and battlements,
that the kiss delivers from the magic spell.
Opening is the key word, but which fear,
which sore does hinder this,
never talked over, never looked at the well hidden scars,
open abscesses, door shut!
Not anybody is to see you in your weakness, in your bareness,
even not your loved one may approach you.
Alas, you beauty, will you be able to surrender
once upon a time to your prince,
he who holds you, heals you and awakens
to real life, blooming, yielding fruit,
happy till the end of your days, our days?
It sure is possible:
For me and you, to find that luck,
hardly anybody dares to seek,
near at hand it is for uns, the royal kids,
all donations of good fairies us are granted.
By the bad one's trick
we learn what love and happiness do mean,
all troubles, doubts and griefs just serve one purpose:
To show us who we are.
A hundred years for Sleeping Beauty,
not anybody could redeem her.
Until the time came.
The long poem from Bunker Ulmenwall is lost.
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