Dedicated to my niece
You run under the artificial sky dome, along the way, always slightly downhill, To the lowest point of the rock rock, Where they hang, Like snow flower, over the source.
Like a crazy, really, schweissnass, And next to you the peacock eye, The lemon butter, Admiral, When a wheelchair user blocks him, your way.
The neck stiffened, The face pergaments,She looks out of two corner of the eye on her narrow back of the hand, Where the blue morpho sits, Found for calm.
You are staring at the blue morpho alternately, Then on the corner of the eye in a face, Like from plaster, You staring and staring, and you almost slip into the seating.
Must not touch him. I warn.
A butterfly, that you touch, becomes
Höchig and maybe dies! Come on!
I warn and look briefly away. —
Your little index finger must once
in front- and be cut back.
A bastard, just. Because you laugh.
I laugh, The woman laughs,
Duuuu laaaachst.
And the big one, Pergaments wings,
I mean, The wing of the tent,
that the sunlight flooded,
becomes transparent and breaks off.
Free for the future, My loved one,
Are your butterflies.
(2003/25)