Blue robe with red and yellow spots

She built a blue house
and adorned it with scorching roses,
which were quicker to wither than her hopes.

Looked out of the window,
as if she could fly,
on her tender hands.

Over meadows of dandelions.

Copyright: Owi Nandi

Love

Some may say
love is dead today
Some may say
love may not die

        Photo by Thomas Marent

Diary entry

In his letter, he apologized once more
for his parting, which was so prompt;
the window pane would have already
separated them one from another.

The three-and-a-half hours
would have been used up so quickly;
he would gladly have
looked after her for longer,
but the quick good-bye
would be the most approved.

She had not thought so far,
did not turn back either,
or attach the same esteem
to the three-and-a-half hours.

In his diary, he secretly recorded the
three-and-a-half hours,
in the evening,
in broken Russian,
so that nobody would be able to read it.

Copyright: Owi Nandi

Transitoriness of the dawn

How old had I to be,
to hope that everything
would always become better?
How old to ask,
where the clouds come from?

When was it, when you,
for the first time,
were embraced by love?
When had you not yet
realized
that life can be hard?

We confined ourselves
to these questions:
Out of respect
for the transitoriness
of the Dawn.

Copyright: Owi Nandi

       Photo by Thomas Marent

Love and death

Love and death devour the pages,
springtime and transience
and woe of being-no-more.

The longing to remain oneself,
to stand in the glare of happiness,
as I and You (or I with You)
and not to be talked out
of trembling and breathing so soon.

       Photo by Thomas Marent

Impressions at a nightly fountain

The precious hours
of loving couples
flow by at the nightly fountain.
Arrogantly, without being asked,
the endless water arc
plunges out of the tube
to be collected
in the old, red sandstone basin.

The beautiful hours of the living
flow by
at the nightly fountain.
The octagon only dams up
the most recent, lucid past.

The waiting hours of the homeless
flow by
at the nightly fountain,
frozen and undisjointed.
Countlessly,
their heartbeats are shed.

Copyright: Owi Nandi