the path loses its way beneath the bushes.
maybe i'm the only one who still walks it.

the light wood of the trees knocks against the wind,
which scatters it. the nearby factory is deserted. and

the walls begin their search for a secret.
it's said they sank machines in the lake.

and the ice in winter blossomed with rust.
many who worked here are already dead.

there's a fence which has lost some of its height,
and is now just a word out of the past.

the warning signs have been removed. i can't
recollect their texts anymore. just a few screws

which held them in place stand bent in their holes.
the sounds of the wind have grown apart here.

only at the end of the fence did i notice that
the path merely went around the factory and provided

no way out, once you had began to follow it.

Translated by Mark Terrill