From here into the north, the ways are
dry. Yellow grass,
thirst in the roots. In the hearts.
It’s all simple, but false.
When I try to think history,
the enormous vertebrae
of the dinosaur behind the purple beeches
Bismarck in marble,
and Benn, a nameplate on Bozener, lifeless.
In the depths of the bunkers
on Potsdamer Platz in Berlin
are the shoes of Hitler’s favorite horse.
Profile of power: armor and helmet.
In our pants pockets, we crumple
the banners. Full of satisfaction
we hear the flags splinter
in the fabric’s darkness.
Don’t forget the poets’ loaded dice.
When iron rules again,
we will have to console ourselves,
adorn stones with smaller stones,
the heart with water.
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