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February 21, 2004
Night Calls
Water left earth, and leaves are falling
at ground to all the crawling things,
It's evident, the night is calling,
spreading out its covering wings
Look up the sky, where clouds appear
making way to a memory of light
No rush, no lie, no truth, no fear;
here we know what's wrong and right
The covering blue is filled with tears
glittering sparks and worlds apart
Shadows grow, letting birds disappear
a stone, still warm, or is it my heart
Posted by Henning von Vogelsang at 05:55 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 09, 2004
When
When will I sit down and write a book? When will the stories, tumbling in my head like clothes in a dryer, come out and find their place in the hearts of their readers? When will I make prints of the photographs I like and put them in passepartouts on walls? When will I have the appartment that is made of these walls? I see it before my eyes if I close them. It's warm in the light of a late afternoon in march and the wooden floor smells of wax. When will my hands touch they keys of a piano again? When will I feel the wood of this piano vibrate by the sound of its strings? When will I take a deep breath, enjoying the shiver running down my spine as a fresh breaze comes inside a tiny window of a house, all grown over with ivy? When will I dip my toes betweeen the leaves swimming on the water of an abandoned pond behind this house? When will I sigh again before falling asleep? When will I swallow salty water as seagras strives my feet? When will I hear the bugs crawling, while sitting at a sandy, stony street in France, with nothing but the air of march around me, a dark blue sky above and a tang of earth and gras in my nose?
It just seems it is important when. But that's not true. Because I will.
Posted by Henning von Vogelsang at 12:29 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack