untitled, 2011, pencil on paper, 25 x 17,5 cm
In the midst of a forgotten book
A flower without fragrance and dry
and I discover in a strange fantasy
is immediately filled my soul:
Where and when flourished? In what spring?
And last long? And who caught him
then, known or unknown hand?
And why put it here?
In memory of a loving congregation,
Or a fatal detachment,
Or a solitary walk
in the silence of the fields or in the dark woods?
They still live he or she ? And where
is now located their nest?
Or maybe they are already faded
as the mysterious flower
Translation of John and Joan Judges Spendel