I see the faded plant in a crucifix,
not a sanctity;
and immediately hear a Vandal leader in full thrust:
in love, advancing with petals resembling people,
at that moment when he saw
that nothing in her was supernatural;
the music itself was superficial;
an echo of some inner harp,
so then he tried to sustain the question:
whether the creation was latent illness
or mere hopelessness and futility.
I see an absolutely faded leaf on a fed plant
and am rotting in despair
without home or my dear ones,
but even Helderlin should settle down here.
How come that all I can create is dreams
and the shame, which i buried each night in a comical way.
My present and future is the 6th century BC,
and ancestor a nonexistent son of Sappho,
while the crucified one ran away from an embrace;
only the dry land remained for the faded plant.
Fro time immemorial
deaths are the charms of familiar plants,
as if you decay separately from your bones.