Onward.

The LAND of FOG

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