Der Mut zum Sein

 

You drowned in the crisp, white snow

in February in Zürich,

white cotton in your auburn hair.

 

Against the birches,

I watched you sink

into the earth

by your magnetic boots,

and I brushed the snowflakes

from your nose.

 

You were warm enough,

nestled in your coat,

dressed in a smile

between your scarf and your hat.

 

I asked you if your glasses

frosted over on cold mornings,

and you just laughed.

 

Auf diese Weise

hätte alles einen Sinn ergeben.

 

ⓒ 'Moth 2020-2024