The world was warm and young.
Poplar fluff burned into smoke, into poplar smog.
We grew up quickly; what was honey turned into copper.
We saw the seam that runs in the heart of the universe.
We smelled shades of stone and the scent of dreams.
We sat in the rye for hours; we set fire and turned
honey into copper, poplar fluff into poplar dim.
When the world grew old, we grew old with it.
Poplar fluff burned out into smoke. Into poplar smog.
When the pyre in the fields went out quietly by dawn,
there were two of us in the ashes left: only me and me.
Now I think of all those who could not escape.
In my eyes there is still dust, bonfires, poplar smoke,
poplar smog in the world’s heart where the seam breaks,
the sun melts steel, what was honey turns into copper
with a squeal of iron, tearing the golden thread to shreds.
Those who can sing remain quietly aging and rotting,
What was rot now rises, begins to sing.
