Very gray corn on the fields
as though it had rained ashes from
a perfect factory

Look this woman bends down
to the ground as if she were only playing
with wings on her back
and not with this wicker-basket
She is frozen in her scene

An ancient cloud
floats across the field
like a cracked voice
I remember how
Grandmother got to tell
stories about such images
spoke the very same

recipes to the firmly-baked
landscape and
brewed tea to sip in tiny cups
from which we drank for hours
There was a static quiet in the room
that cannot be blurred To this day

there were names
This cloud could
be an airship
At any rate they were
my relatives
and I can't recognize
a single soul

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser & Gabriel Rosenstock