the dead are walking about with small maps
in their hands

for that one it's obviously the first trip
he never went further from his native village
than to the centre of the district
and my stars, a foreign country
probably europe he thinks
winks and blinks at night as bright as day
so where in the hell am I
the cows aren't milked the hay's rotting
he daren't ask the way
in his rough tongue
he'd already like to go home

another one surely
has died quite a few times
he's looking for the reichstag the eiffel tower
the pissing boy made of bronze
the red-light district in a word for the must do's
designated with stars
not everything's as it should be
on the contrary everything's
not he's walking in circles
already the ninth
for this one it doesn't matter
whether it's heaven or hell
he explores every last cranny
checking his maps

the group of grey-haired elders
all swank
spectacles with golden frames
befitting the iconography of heaven
continue their eternal vacations
not yet having abandoned the habit
of puffing on a pipe
they follow the guide
being careful not to trip
often taking pictures of themselves
feeling their own transience
constantly afraid of falling behind

the dead follow on with small
maps
not everyone can find at a single blow
the brandenburg gate
with the four horses of hell
or the triumphal arch
with insignias of the kingdom
some of them jerk about
amid four wailing walls
one sits in the bistro pergamon
sipping beer not in a hurry

everyone has their own small
map