The Source

[ poem by Maximilian G. Wolf ]

— — — — — — — — — —
Children’s hands stained with fruit color in spring water,
right next to the old mill
where the yellow sand is sprinkled into rocks.
Moss and blueberries
on lumps of discarded illusions, they grow
up in the oak forest.
A wolf’s face with a mouth full of acorns
hungrily looks at the city with hot eyes,
and into the river light
between stone monoliths.
*
Like fugitives from the past
In the new year beginning,
at the window above the narrow passage
we have begun new countings.
Nights in the Old Town
with a quiet fire to welcome life
they reveal all the secrets
flowing in torrents to the water
waiting down there
at the end of a paved alley
and turns west
towards the dormant canals.
*
The river carries stones within its bed
been paid in gold millet.
Absorbs Eastern prayers,
they sprinkle the roofs asleep
and falls on the water
drunk with the holy words
of the hearts lost
in languages and names.
We are looking for an old book nest
created by mysterious visitors from the south
that let forgetfulness walk
and guards the shadows in deep sleep
under our hearthstone.
*
At night, you caress me on your lap,
and deep joy is awakened,
you bring peace by praying for us.
Ice cubes flow down the chest
melts on the thighs,
but the flow of kisses is down the back
unpredictable to the very end.
I hug you tired in my nest
while the smell of your hair on my face
whispers that it is unimportant
Are the city streets
covered with a gold
or with stone gray.
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