Watch Us Float  

1

When we move here we begin going to concerts.

Like refugees who end up in an unknown place,

we follow the conductor through a blizzard of sound

until the notes on the piano knock on our muted hearts.

We follow the leader, the pied piper, who drags after

him a troop of visitors through churches, palaces, past statues

of generals who are having their eyebrows tidied up

by pigeons. The soles of the feet of bronze horsemen itch

when surrounded by strange accents. We new arrivals follow

the crumbs of welcomes right up to tablefuls of locals.

They serve us with the years marked on housefronts,

with the whisper of vestries, with chips from a castle wall,

sprinkled with salt like pretzels on a bar,

so we return home drunk with alien history.

2

We woo the land which offers us its green hand in greeting,

only later, after we shake hands, are we aware of the river,

the veins of water. In warm pockets a chestnut accustoms

our fingers to the fall which will squeeze us into a corner,

so that faces will fade away, so that shapes that are bundled

in parkas will be fantastic chromatic spots on the grayish

brown watercolour. When we are alone we slip off into the past

as into a bathrobe. How softly it clings to us. In a glitter

of gold it rises above us, as in the morning quiet we sip

our coffee and, half asleep, stare at the puzzled chairs

which are carefully placing their legs on the new floor.

3

From behind the curtain we peek at the stage of the city

preparing for the work day. The noise of a tin caterpillar

reverberates as it creeps from the suburbs into the glare of

the centre, where a baroque garden fixes its clipped haircut

in a mirror of thin ice, ready for the cameras of countless

guests who are still dozing in hotel rooms. In foreign languages

they dream about croissants being thrown by knights

from the castle wall into the orchestra pit.

When we enter the street scene we accept everything

that falls into our arms—the flags on the tips of umbrellas

from Asian tour guides, the blind stare of a putto,

the fast walk of a rural costume, and expose our face

to the cold air, so our eyes start to weep and above the river

appears a rainbow of doves, notes and white periwigs.