Meeting Benches World art in all forms
DAYS IN WHITE
In these days, I get up with birches and on the forehead I restart interlock the strands of wheat, in front of a mirror of ice. Amalgamated to my breath, flakes milk: so early it has easy foam. And where the glass fogged with breath appears, painted by a child finger, yet your name: innocence! After a long time. In these days, I am sorry to learn to forget, and be forced to remember. I love. I love to incandescence, and thank heaven biblically. I learned it in flight. In these days, I think the albatross, which he lifted and transported, in a country that is a blank. I guess the horizon, shining in its setting, my fabulous continent, over there, that I was laid off, already covered the shroud. I live, and listening from afar his swan song!
(Ingeborg Bachmann)
