It is first of all, has been, here separates me picket by picket.
Partitions and intervals, light and shadow:
I have learned, to have lost myself: to lose.
In the exactitude, with which it varies the eternal sameness.
Or might find, in the crookedly hammered nailheads, the trace.
Once again, scarred over, rusted black, cross after cross.
Concealed, interwoven with hedges, woodpiles, meadows, mead.
Between them, now and again, its substance shines off:white, and between.
Thin timbers fallen into a beyond, into still another Garden.
Michael Donhauser (born 1956) Liechenstein (lives in Austria)
Translated by Andrew Joron
Source: The PIP Blog
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