The shore of the sea has no choice,
It must accept
whatever the tides bring …
and take.


I recover the shells
from the whispering sand,
that tell of white ships
and their flight to foreign shores.

Full moon

The dogs are silent
even when the moon is full.
So falls into their silence
the memory of what we once were.


Spring has many sounds,
but last night
the buds were silent,
remained a fragile promise.

The wind

The wind sweeps the leaves from the trees,
so that winter would not break them.
So they stand unprotected
and protected at the same time.


The river is a shining chain,
the moon a white eye for the hills.
The bright heart of the city
rests like a half-opened fan
until dawn.

Morning Moon

The shadow of the morning moon
floats like snow on the earth.
Poetry alone
smiles towards the sky.


A shadow am I
on the face of the moon,
misunderstood like the day
that has long since gone out.

The wall

My dark hands
broke through the wall.
A dream helped me
to shatter that night.


Passion has wings.
She returns like a bird
but its weary beat hesitates
Of half-remembered things.


You turned into a hundred rooms.
How often I returned to the doors
that could be opened only once.
Your words turned to stone in them.

What remains

What remains to tell
since the poets told of the sunset?
I have only seen the day
that pressed its lips to the horizon
and kissed the earth goodbye.


Say the old photos
in the album of childhood
always tell the truth?
They save the tears
and the forgotten dreams.


Life is a snake skin,
loose and green, rolled up and shed;
it chains itself to you like a balloon
to the wrist of a child.

Great moments

You played your last tune
you danced your steps too soon.
It’s not easy to understand
that great moments are so rare.


Evil was invented
to give people something
to talk about.
But how can one speak
if every word falls into the sea?


There are things
that even the wind does not reveal.
The land puts its finger
confidentially to the lips.

The surprise

The expected bang
when the balloon burst
had failed to come.
He had simply grown tired.

From the collection „“Lyrische Miniaturen„.