"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

28 December 2020



In Winter my beloved is among
the animals in the forest.
I must return before morning,
the vixen knows this and laughs.
How the clouds shiver! And onto
my snowy collar falls
another layer of brittle ice.

In Winter my beloved is
a tree among trees and she invites
down-on-their-luck crows
into her lovely branches. She knows
when light breaks, the wind
lifts her crisp frost-filled
evening gown and chases me home.

In Winter my beloved
is among the fish and silent.
Slave to the waters, the line
of their fins inwardly moves,
I stay on the shore and watch
how she dives and turns
until the ice-floes force me away.

And hit again by the hunting cry
Of a bird whose wings stiffen
Over me, I fall
On the open field: she rips
The feathers from hens and throws me
A white collarbone. I place it round my neck
And go onward through the acrid feathers ...

I have seen the land of fog.
I have eaten the heart of fog.

Ingeborg Bachmann

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