things today are somehow lonely
things are like vases without friends
like the sideboard here with its marble
slab stood against the wall and left there.
what we want to know is: don't things
have other things to play with?
have things been given nothing, not the
slightest thing, to hold on to?
but if we were perfectly frank,
we would have but a single question:
where have all the things gone
that are willing to shoulder our guilt?
winding thread me, spinning top you.

Translation: Nicholas Grindell