Palm Sunday – four more poems float down the stream of time, where the little boats drift to…
Palm Sunday
Now, that even simple-minded people have noticed
That life is more important than money or rights –
Which they have never tried to obtain,
For convenience. Why should they?
Palm Sunday is a day on which many is revealed:
Today they cheer you, tomorrow they mock you;
Or you are simply forgotten in empty churches.
Once the flowers were still blooming for you
And the branches were greening at this time of year.
It may not have been faith from the heart,
But it was lived in the present.
Now there is only silence.
For sure, I am more memory than being – but
In these strange times that counts a lot.
* * *
Old Fellow
In darkness the meadows remain.
Shadows stand over the pond.
The fields have long been grazed,
I stand in a gloomy barn, hungry.
My master has forgotten me
And all my friends are gone.
I face all alone.
I don’t want to believe anymore
In spring. Whatever.
They lied when they said:
„life is a pony farm.“
They all lied!
Yay, that may be true for some,
But for a lone jade, it‘s hell.
* * *
Poor modern times
I don’t know why I have to deal with brazen
And simple-minded people all my dear life.
If they were at least still children, one could hope,
But there is no hope for these old brooms.
What they lack in heart,
They try to compensate for with consumption.
What they are missing in intellect,
They replace with technology.
Seldom has so much been put on facade whitewash
And so little importance been attached
To the foundation.
That we live in these supposedly „enlightened“ times
Doesn’t make it any better. Instead, superficiality
And a lack of profundity are still adorned
With the fashionable word „modern“.
* * *
Sins of Moria
It is a very telling thing
When we proudly speak
About freedom and human rights
In holy noble speeches,
And that means only ourselves.
If we are in danger ourselves,
Then we help „selflessly“,
But the misery in the camps,
Far from our set tables,
With spicy southern fruits,
Cool chocolate and heavy on meat,
The naked and starving misery:
We don’t care about that.
And as we go into hiding
In our neat little homes,
For fear of the angel of death,
We let him rage elsewhere
Among the innocent:
Children, parents and grandmothers.
* * *
