Poem
Kerstin Hensel
WHEN I WENT TO HIS PLACE
When I went to his placehe moved the table away
and leaned the bed
against the wall –
but me he laid
between himself
and the flowering beginning
of our dreams.
He left
before our time was up
before the room
grew decorated
and the bed remained
a heart-warm trap.
November drove snow
through the door.
The table taunts me
with questions.
And only sleep drives me
into bed.
Outside he walks
stooped –
love\'s bent stick
knocking on the ice.
ALS ICH BEI IHM WAR RÜCKTE ER
ALS ICH BEI IHM WAR RÜCKTE ER
Den Tisch fort und das BettLehnte er steil an die Wand, und er legte
Mich zwischen sich und dem was da anfing
Girlanden von Träumen
Er ging, als unsre Zeit noch nicht um war
Noch nicht war das Zimmer geschmückt
Und ich stellte den Tisch in den Raum, das Bett
Blieb eine herzwarme Falle. Der November
Trieb Schnee durch die Tür. Auf dem Tisch
Wachsen Fragen in das Papier
Und ins Bett treibt mich der Schlaf.
Er läuft schon krumm, vorsichtig wie auf Eis
Klopft das Herz Stock oder Stein
© 2001, Kerstin Hensel
From: Bahnhof verstehen. Gedichte 1995-2000, Sammlung Luchterhand
Publisher: Luchterhand Literaturverlag GmbH, München
From: Bahnhof verstehen. Gedichte 1995-2000, Sammlung Luchterhand
Publisher: Luchterhand Literaturverlag GmbH, München
Poems
Poems of Kerstin Hensel
Close
WHEN I WENT TO HIS PLACE
When I went to his placehe moved the table away
and leaned the bed
against the wall –
but me he laid
between himself
and the flowering beginning
of our dreams.
He left
before our time was up
before the room
grew decorated
and the bed remained
a heart-warm trap.
November drove snow
through the door.
The table taunts me
with questions.
And only sleep drives me
into bed.
Outside he walks
stooped –
love\'s bent stick
knocking on the ice.
From: Bahnhof verstehen. Gedichte 1995-2000, Sammlung Luchterhand
WHEN I WENT TO HIS PLACE
When I went to his placehe moved the table away
and leaned the bed
against the wall –
but me he laid
between himself
and the flowering beginning
of our dreams.
He left
before our time was up
before the room
grew decorated
and the bed remained
a heart-warm trap.
November drove snow
through the door.
The table taunts me
with questions.
And only sleep drives me
into bed.
Outside he walks
stooped –
love\'s bent stick
knocking on the ice.
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