a gentle wind
lowers itself onto the arid leaf
thirsty for the attar of a new breath
awaiting in patience the first drop
underneath layers of the frozen white
whispers promises anew
unlocks the box after Pandora leaves
she has been tricked
no ill seeps through this time
the bolt’s ice will not be melting yet
in joyous dance unite hope and smiles
dreams and love recover again
Goethe calls out as if for me:
Muses, help me with art,
To suffer joy’s pain!
Ludwig Uhland’s painless joy
cuddles me with a kissing breeze:
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now, poor heart, fear not!
Now everything, everything must change.