So cold was the heart that it
was afraid for itself,
it drowned language, wanted to be
called callous,
snuggled against tiles
lived like happy maggots
under baskets of sour cherries
gnawing selflessly into the strangeness,
head first, tired, so palpitating, the heart
was speechless. What also happened
very quietly the face fell into two pieces.
Language lost its thread
scraping into the ground, without purpose.

translated by Peter Skrzynecki