to the left my mother grew up
her mother and father
die off root and branch
a wriveled house that produced
six seeds six children
did not fall far a circle
hop skip jump the house
scatters ashes fresh curtains
geraniums and everything the two
Berlin men are get under the
skin sharp chops to the neck
mummers multiply
pour a round

mother father put down roots
slowly on the edge on field
bindweed occasionally
a single child drifts through
doesn't have a single
soul blood soup everything
dissipates those said to be
dead tearjerkers glisten
in their windows the child moves
slowly again by the house of the two
men it doesn't work up a
sweat because of the heat at most

here you can still see
lady midday sometimes
the fireman loyal barks
stir up dust the rainmaker
is unemployed as well
ain't done got high

the red caterpillars slowly consume
the rapeseed at night and the golden grain
still stands shivering beside it but
the combines will come in time

the moon hangs full over the sand road
and heavy like the neighbor's belly

Translated by Bradley Schmidt