it happens every time when it rains on the backstreets
you can feel through the rhythm of pending death
the blood pulse in your ears
an echo in a seashell
your life staggering like a ballet dancer on a wire
hiding the sun with her umbrella to avoid blindness
you can feel the ship’s floor slanting when the captain falls asleep

this world cleanses again of its ashes
everything drifts away like windblown raindrops

*

it is a pure scent of fresh bread steaming
it is a struggle against these ruined walls
still untouched by the springtime sun
you can hear a grandmother sighing while reading fairy tales
an old man crying in front of his empty stamp book
a scratched record playing behind wide open windows

from the underground floor of the circus
a beggar recites a philosophical stanza
because it rains

and no one knows
why clocks disappeared from the city squares
why they took down the posters from lamp posts
and the names of yesteryears singers drowned in mud
no one understands what happened
with those watchmaker shops and repairing workshops
where we took our umbrellas shoes watches hats stockings
no one knows if this circle will be unbroken

*

on the streets where dandelions grow wild
trees are partly cut telephone poles are uprooted
they pour hot asphalt
people searching for a guiding star embrace each other longer
children have the palms of their hands blackened
eating blueberries