The smallest common denominator is a great sense of loss.
Dead deer dash past.
The green hunter loses sight of his quarry.
His quarry is what he loses sight of.
All he wants is to lose sight of his quarry.
The greatest common denominator is a leaf-green sense of loss.
Of three who went out, only one ever returned.
His success was complete, his reward boundless.
The eyeglasses of the less fortunate were never recovered.
They are washed by rain after rain.
They see ticks drop dawn on people
to inflame their brains with German landscapes.
Of three who went forth, there always were two who never returned.
Their defeat was complete, their loss boundless.
There are days when the giant won't fall for the ruse,
days when no kindly mammals speak to us
with human voices.
Dead deer dash past.
The forest comes alive with whispers: Can we go now?
But no trail leads out of a leaf-green sense of loss.
Dopey, the vulnerable dwarf
scrapes his stepmother's fiddle,
kisses a coffin of glass.

Translated by: Anselm Hollo