Sculpting and poetry are closely related artistic ways of expression. Both disciplines strive for the compaction of ideas, concepts, views, thoughts. In the end, the condensed form is different, but the intentions are similar. The sculptor is a material poet, the poet is a sculptor with words.

Anodos - Kathodos

Jos Letschert
Collected poems 1999 - 2022
292 pages
Language: Dutch - German
Translation in German: Beate Letschert
Blurb.de



Collected Poems 

by Jos Letschert

(English)




Ruthless self-portrait


I am visiting
myself tonight,
not so inspiring
at first sight,
an empty glass
and little light. 

I secretly check
my watch to see, 
whether I stayed
long enough 
to flee.

Longing

 

On the border 

between sea 

and sand, it is
hard to make 
a choice.

 

Always longing 
for the other side. 
While I'm dreaming,

I want to wake up,

when I'm awake,

I try to sleep.

 

Sand in September 

 

Sand, nothing but sand 

and water, your steps 

are drowning, like my
reluctant thoughts. 
Sea comes and goes. 

 

The hem of your calf-length 

dress colors dark pink, 
due to the foam of waves 

washing your feet, before 
they withdraw, as enamored, 

nevertheless shy adolescents. 

A secret garden


Sometimes, before the evening 

falls, we walk on also fallen leaves

and thoughtless winding paths

under the old wood of a secret 

garden. Nobody knows how to 

get there, you don't either.

 

It's a questionable garden, 
not carefully planted in advance.

There are bushes without leaves,

but that is the season’s fault.

Coincidence is gardener there 
and visitors are not expected. 
Whoever strolls around on a 
late and darkening evening, 
becomes inevitably part of 
that ongoing mystery.

Watering words

 

Planted a hawthorn hedge,

moved some rhododendrons,

put a boxwood in a jar, tied

up the roses.

 

Intervened here and there,

in the small order of this life.

Made dirty hands, deleted

weeds, bundled thoughts,

watered words.

Stripes and scratches

 

Between stripes 

and scratches, colors

lighten up, forms are 
flying away, images 
adrift.

 

I fight what I capture, 

I don’t want to give up 
what I let go.

 

A lot needs to be added,

to make clear, what I 
leave out.

Impromptu

 

White paint like 

fresh snow, spilled 

on flattened grass,

on apostate leaves 

on bare stone,

or simply lost in a 

puddle of water,

in smoldering fire:

underground.

 

An unprecedented

pattern, disorderly 

moments developing 

improvisational - from 

the moment itself – 

habitable thoughts

with a tender structure:

upperground.

Drawing

 

Wandering between

appearances and

considerations, I 

choose long, thin 

and short lines, stripes 

and planes. No point

at all.

 

Getting lost in flat 

paper landscapes,

I am creating space 

and other falsifications, 

sometimes jumping,

often in a slow way, 

step by step.

 

I sprinkle food for 

trackers and meaning 

hiding scratches for

handwriting explainers.

 

Much needs to be

added to make clear

what I leave out.

Yesterday's snow 

 

In yesterday's snow,

when thaw sets in, 

you can find fragments

of presumed lost thoughts.

Verities

 

If it is true,

for how long, 

or how much 

and for whom?

 

If it is true, 

it is mostly 

too beautiful

to be true, or 

only holding for 

one or two still 

unbiased moments, 

then it is already 

different again,

is it not true?

Incongruous

 

Not a word

put on paper,

no thought 

organized.

Left the void.

 

Just some gloss 

at not yet written

phrases. Meaning 

does not always 

fits and is often 

incongruous.

Nothing is easy

 

Inventing a word 

for an incongruous 

poem, articulate 

the sentence and 

representing  a 

concept, taking 

a picture today 

of what  doesn't 

happen until 

tomorrow, remind 

you of something 

that has not yet 

been, or: rid luck

from coincidence.

 

Nothing is easy.

Ease does not 

serve man. Giving 

up doesn't pay.

Much is worth it.

Too complicated

 

How far away can 

you be, if you're close?

Can you imagine a 

distance, how long 

does a game last?

What is the plural

of singular? When

is something finished,

or will it only then 

begin?

 

Simplicity cannot be

dictated, such as: too 

complicated, Mr. Schubert,

we don't like complexity.

 

Where are you now?

I can't play you, I can’t

follow your traveling, 

I'd rather have you 

around me, especially 

when you're gone,

yes then, especially

when you're gone,

with all these notes

on your score.

 

Inspiration

 

A brief sparking,

insanity for a while. 

A heart on the run. 

Eyes, lost in each 

other, frivolously 

cheated. Happiness 

to hell.

 

Short moments, 

so attractive for 

poetry.

Moments

 

Cherish your

moments of 

happiness.

Insure yourself

of warmth for 

chilly hours.

 

A bird flies

beyond. The 

phone rings.

The newspaper 

is coming.Tea 

water boils.

 

I love you

today, not 

more special 

as tomorrow, 

I suppose, 

but more than 

yesterday, or

as I can tell 

you now.

 

Period rooms

 

Those who go for a walk 

in the evening in old Dutch 

inner cities, see in passing 

sometimes, in the twilight 

of shaded lamps, due to 

unclosed windows and

among the greenery of 

houseplants, in decent 

flowerpots, still glimpses 

of long-lost period rooms.

 

Domestic intimacy, actually 

hidden, but at the same time 

so open, is guarded casually

through stylish doors, canal 

green, nearly black and with 

a copper button. Hand-painted 

- at eye level - a name or number 

in a jaunty, but chic font.

 

The walker passes respectfully,

slowing down the steps for a 

moment. His gaze enters the 

room: looking, accidentally,

longing? He doesn't see me.

 

The walker has already passed.

I can still hear his steps. They 

sound as in an impromptu 

by Schubert.

Quay

 

A black-tinted, salt-weathered 

pole, clamped at the quay, 

in addition to an iron ladder, 

no further than half-way down,

with bows to help the reaching 

hands. An edge of concrete,

painted bright orange: this is 

where the land ends, the sea 

begins.

 

How high should the tide be,

for a wandering skipper? 

Does he know the hour, the 

right time? What moves him 

to lay here, leave his vessel to 

scrape the paint on the land 

with his boots?

 

How low can ebb be, 

to leave the land from the 

last step to take the plunge 

to the wood of the boat?

 

Does he know the moment, 

or does he trust coincidence,

like the lines in the sand,

seemingly without ground?

Sea at Sylt

 

Sea, only sea,

no wave dares

to raise a head.

 

Expectant I am,

like a swarm of gulls

behind a fishing cutter.

 

What are you thinking, 

you ask, what am I 

thinking, I think, high 

on the dune between

Kampen and List.

 

If you ask me,

I don't know, 

if you don't ask me, 

I know.

 

Broken

 

What is left if 

there is nothing left, 

unreasonable space 

maybe, remains of a 

membrane, vibration 

of broken connection

perhaps, or the lack of 

wonder.

Talking movements

 

I see you talking,

from a distance,

with here and there

interruptions, that 

means: I see the 

dislocation of talking 

movements, they 

come and go, blowing,

pulsating, sometimes 

salty, tolerable from 

time to time, shooting 

too, nevertheless, finally 

slowly absconding in a

pointless sea.

Shutter speed

 

What has been

is not gone,

even if you 

cannot touch 

it anymore,

it touches 

you always.

 

Memories

become more 

beautiful in the 

long run, after 

the closing

of time.

Lost

 

As long as you 

don't know

where to go to,

you haven’t lost 

the way yet.

 

If you know where 

to go to, but not

exactly how to come 

there, well, then 

you’re lost.

Like a leaf falls

 

More or less dancing,

swaying actually -

or better: hesitating.

 

Wanted to tell you 

about it, but I didn't 

know precisely where

or when it has begun.

 

I only looked then 

how inescapable 

even a dancing leaf

yet falls.

As though

 

As if it wasn’t

always like this,

we've read and 

laughed,

 

I remember 

what you did 

not told me, 

I forgot what 

you said to me.

 

Through the 

window-pane 

we looked at

each other and 

to the things that

vain and tumbling

mirrored in the 

glass,

 

as if it was not

always so, but 

it wasn’t.

Aging

 

Less knowing,

more assuming,

no longer believing,

maybe hoping, 

doubting actually,

and much more 

intuitive than ever

before.

 

The older the more

impatient, there is

not so much time 

left.

Alibi for flying a kite

 

We used to make kites,

in former days, well, my 

dad made kites for me, that 

means: I wasn't supposed 

to touch anything, only when 

the kite was launched, what 

is quite a process. At first 

the rope had to be attached, 

not knotted, but with two 

matches through the loop of 

the rig. Then running, my father, 

I mean. Often the tail was too 

heavy, or too light, then we 

had to take paper off, or adding 

more. Then running again. If he 

stood, the kite, I could hold the 

rope for a while. Well, my father 

was holding the bobbin, a piece 

of wood with two sticks making 

it easier to wind and to unwind

the rope. So, I was allowed to

touch the line for a while, feeling 

the tension, the kite fighting

against the wind, the rope in a 

long bow, from our hands to the 

air. Sometimes we’d send 

messages, well, my father did, 

pieces of paper, torn till the 

middle, slid around the wire, 

as high as possible, until the 

wind took over.

 

After a while, the kite was 

taken down, meter by meter, 

rolling up the rope. Sometimes 

a kite got lost, due to a gust of 

wind, a decline carried out too 

sharply, or a rope break. 

Unfortunately, of course, but 

also beautiful, then we could 

make a new kite, well, my father
of course,  I mean, for me, as 
an alibi.

With different eyes 

 

I wish your attention, 

your perceptiveness, 

so that you know that 

I'll be there, so that you 

perceive all what I do 

and that you hear 

what I will say to you. 

 

It's me, just look at me, 

your attention is the core 

of my existence. Who am I 

when no one notices me? 
If you really look at me, 
then you might see me, 
and maybe this time 

with different eyes. 

 

Building a boat

 

Four years I was, or 

something like that, 

just in kindergarten. 

I built with blocks a 

boat, together with

 - I forgot his name - 

and those nuns there, 
they understood at 
least that we could not 
break down the thing 

at the late afternoon.

 

My grandfather is a 

plumber, I said to

- I forgot his name -

he can make everything,

he will make a rudder for 

us, then we sail tomorrow. 

I really believed that we 

could sail, I was very 

convinced of that. So much 

faith I have lost in later 

life, but that we could sail 

with this self-built ship, I 

do believe that till today.

The last Indian

 

There were still horses 

grazing in the ‘Horse Meadow’. 

My grandfather walked with

big steps through the wet grass,

with double steps I went next 

to him.

 

He cut branches from a tree 

and from his pocket he took 

a rope. The largest branch 

was bent into a bow, others

where pointed to arrows.

 

Suddenly I was an Indian and 

Grandpa became chief, with 

a ‘Court Jester’ in his head, 

I mean his favorite brand cigars. 

The remaining rope was tied around 

my hair, with a duck feather in it.

 

Now there are houses in the 

‘Horse Meadow’, you don’t see 

horses anymore. Once I was happy 

there and the last Indian.

 

Equestrian statues

 

The overbearing attitude 

of people to be on the 

back of a horse. Proud 

animal with fragile legs. 

The graceful line is now

disrupted by the rider’s

counterform, laying 

weights on the bridge,

that most vulnerable 

place.

 

I like most sculpture of

Marino Marini, especially 

his riders. Unintentionally

I suppose, he shows us

how misplaced a human

looks like on a horse’s back.

Even clumsy. It’s not going 

well for long too. His later 

horses throw off their riders, 

at least, they try very hard

to do so. It may be called a 

"Miracolo" that the riders can 

cling to the opposing horse

for so long.

 

Beyond doubt

 

If you tell me

that you don't know,

it doesn't mean that

you don't know it.

Probably you know,

but not sufficient 

enough to decide 

already that it is 

worthwhile enough

to hold it in words.

Landing

 

Before landing the 

eyes closed, still 

uncertain, expectant, 

hesitant, that kind of 

things.

 

There may be a 

rejection, without a 

reasonable explanation, 

like feathers bound on 

a stick, a bird's head, 

a dead sparrow, or another 

totem or fetish for initiates.

 

The morning doesn't seem

to be habitable, like a long

time ago abandoned paper

wasp's nest, broken by 

searching crows. The water

is offshore. Nothing indicates 

a happy ending. I arrived

to get lost again.

Penates

 

That's enough, 
I'm going to my 
penates now. 
There's no now 
and then, at most 

a handful desire, 
melancholy, 

nostalgia, 
and more of 
that kind of 
sentimental 
things.

 

I invited no one, 
but all they pass. 
We exchange 
volatile thoughts.

Collateral damage

 

Maybe something like 

that, or something else? 

That's how it is. I'm sure. 

Say something too, you, 

crawling through mud, 

bigoting with mown 

feathers and a godforsaken

password, paralyzed hands, 

grabbing magician, slipping

king's daughter, I liked you 

more than you liked me,

I thought, but that was 

after the storm and the 

screeching  of chainsaws
in fallen trees. I suspect 
the fear of birds. They 
don’t care at all.

 

Bad company

 

You don't know them, 

they on the other hand, 

know you, and on a day

so black as a piano, 

nevertheless still with

some music in it, it is

Swodderstocking who

collects the Havelar, 

while the unreliable 

Labberlot ruins in the

meantime the faded 

residues of unnecessary 

allure, under the biased 

eye of freaky Onevar, 

that useless leak field.

 

Streetdogs, cherubim,

thieves, factotums,

chicaning companions

in a taunting life.

Immeasurable

 

Immeasurable:

the highest 

step of happiness.

 

Penny counters,

barterers, failed

magicians, ruthless 

crooks, 

 

hurry, but don't 

stumble already 
on the first sport, 
against all odds, 
or knowing 

better.

Postcard

 

I have sent

you something,

it's a postcard:

a square with

trees, a church 

with tower, a
monument with
forgotten names.
The air is so bright 
blue that it must be 
colored afterwards, 
or it is deep in France 
and always summer.

I have written

something on the 

backside, I suppose

it's about love, 

like: I am here now,

you are there, if 

you were here, 

I am sure I would 

stay there.

Decembersong 

 

The wariness of snow,

it falls, but it cannot be 

taken for granted, 

hesitantly, more or less 

restrained, as a white

flaky particle decelerator

for a new still-life,

fragile and perishable.

 

Prospects are blurry,

the insight still open,

questions have been 

lost in the multitude 

of answers.

 

It is December again 

and inside vulnerable 

enchanted glass birds 

are singing exuberant

inaudible, a nostalgic 

song - for those who 

can or want to hear it -

about wonder, connexion 

and desire.

 

Outside swirls snow:

some slight wingbeats.

Maybe a dove, a sparrow,

or a black crow? What 

else could it be in this 

late month? Although:

on lower bushes there

are hanging just spun 

swirling mists of moon-

white tinsel, and from 

the cheeks of wind the 

same melody is blowing 

gently but unmistakable, 

that old Decembersong.

 

Glowing backlight

 

December again, and 
anew the final day of this 
damp cold month, with 
timidly, reserved 

airy colors.

 

A touch of glassy blue,

a wipe of pigeon-grey,

wilted whites, windswept 

blacks, against an early 

evening twilight, and if it 

– royal error – does not 

snow again, but raining 
cats and dogs, you will see

in the glimmer of old 
fashioned streetlamps an 
uplighting pavement of 
hesitating soaking wet 
dutch gold.

 

There hasn’t to be said 
so much, but unsaid does 
not mean that it goes 
without saying, or as a matter 
of course. Hidden inner city, 
between your walls we go 
through our finest dusky hours.
Tomorrow morning everything 
is apparently the same, 
nevertheless undeniable too, 
in a different glowing backlight. 

Perspective

Decemberland, packed
in swirling mists, a glimpse
of afternoon light, colored
pigeon gray, much depth
too, as a painter would do,
with atmospheric perspective,
wings, or vanishing points for
imaginary lines, making
everything smaller on the way
to an uncertain horizon.

A raven is flying by,
messenger of lost gods: their
signs are not heard anymore,
not to mention understood.
There's much to hold tight
in future, but also to leave,
considering, as a photographer
would do, searching for light on
fragile fragments. Tomorrow
will be another day, with fresh
snow perhaps. Early birds will
be the first to write on it, or
you and me.


Palimpsest


The year almost
written to an end,
on old parchment,
waiting to be
scraped for a
new beginning
on residues of ink,
scratches and a
single crack, like
on ice, abraded
by sharp feet
of skaters, writing
their accidental
signs in a not yet
really understood
language, like on
photos, layered by
double exposure,
as a kind of 
memory, mixed up 
with prospect, and
where, what has 
already been,
prepares the way
for what is
coming yet,

but different.

Around you

 

You have a lot 

around you:

thoughts fly in 

and out, words 

too. You pick up 

what you find,

as reminder, or 

a usable foretoken. 
So much around 
you, from all sides, 
as in a still life by

Braque.

 

 Long journey 

 

And if you go, 

please one more kiss, 

it's such a long journey 

and I can't go with you. 

 

It's a journey you didn't 

choose yourself, you don't 
even know where you are 
going to and if you need 
to take something with 

you, like a coat, a bag, 
a hat, or something else. 

 

Please one more kiss before 

you go, it's such a long journey. 

No god is waiting there for you, 

you are about to leave your god,
right now.

Shine and gloria

 

Night gave birth to 

the brothers sleep 

and death.

 

My crib is lined 

with silk and hang 

with tulle. I'm almost 

immobile, wrapped like 

a mummy on a too 

early deathbed, waiting 

for a new morning.

Twenty-five thousand 

times it went well so

far and I served the day, 

saving in the meantime 

silverware and wings, 

illusions and other ladies

in-court, and much more

shine and gloria.

 

Against better judgment

and endless-seeming time,

while nothing stays, neither 

thing nor dream. The blink 

of an eye, maybe, or a poem.

Well, a poem, perhaps, for a 

short moment, until one gets 

rid of it.

 

 

Reflection time 

 

Misplaced: flowers on 

windows, children caught

in desolate schools, walked 

dogs, elated but on a leash. 

In dawn and dusk the light is 

young or old, tar and brittle, 

promising too, like sticky dough 

for rolls to be baked.

 

Time was not linear and 

imagination still my friend. 

I am so young, maybe a

hundred lives, to be counted 

on the fingers of ten hands, 

or five feet and five hands, 

clear in any case. I often 

thought about that, before I 

was born, remembering 

the road I have to go.

 

 

After the Ice Age

 

Until it stops, 

before then 
you don't think 
about it, much 
is forgotten in 
the long run.

 

No explanatory 
reason, no moment
remembered either, 
to what I could never 

resist, but no longer 
do now, like: ice 
skating on frozen 
lakes, as in a 
congealed still life, 
on a way from 
nowhere to nothing.

Interface

 

Under the mask 

hides another 

borrowed face
and some more 
below. Layered 
probabilities,
- appearing and 
disappearing - 
even though they 
are tied with ribbons
against an annoying 
loss, meanwhile  
speaking in many 
languages, which 
they don't master.

 

 

Ancestors 

 

A child am I 

of many parents, 

stacking predecessors 

in and on my head,

carrying them along,

as penates, fetish,
burden sometimes, 
in hope of reluctant 
blessing. 

 

Most of them are 
strange and far to me. 
I am going back in mind, 
cherishing signs, crossing
borders, asking birds, 
defeating shadows, raging  
emptiness beyond, to an 
uncertain destination.

 

 

Mythological poems

Playing ball Menelaos

 

Envied by all suitors,

run off with desirable

Helena. For a while it 
goes well, but it is not 
always easy to be  
Menelaos. That damned 
dominate brother, that 
Paris parasite, that 
adulterous wife, 
pretending to be a phantom
or the shadow of a cloud. 
Finally, the Elysian fields, 
nectar and ambrosia for
ever, and a lot of eternal
boredom, of course. 

 

Laertes

 

You don't have 

to prove yourself

time over time.

Your views

are covered by

a gossamer veil

of humility - only 

your memories

keep you going

on, and maybe

a small trace

of hope.

 

Birds fly on

and off in their 

shadows on the 

wall, food for 

dreamers and

eager prophets.

Penelope's considerations
 after Odysseus' return

 

Restless wanderer,

I can hardly see the 
difference between
my dark dreams and
those of ivory. What 
do you want to tell me 
during this long night, 
struggling with your 
memories, trying to 
recast your past in
order to handle an 
obscure future? 
 
Can you free yourself 
from what you're chasing, 
or does it remain the 
everlasting burden on your 
shoulder that you will never 
shed? And what will be our 
prospect, if there is one?

 

Andromache's complaint

 

Hektor, elegant hero,
you beat Patroclos,
brother-in-arms of
Achilles, who will
never forgive you.
  
Your wife and mother 
of a futureless son,
weeps and laments
at the prospect of
their pernicious 
fate.
  
Homer, however
- the industrious
collector of atrocious 
stories – rubs his 
hands, satisfied, 
looking back at 
all that trouble.

 

Prometheus

 

You – forward thinker – 

steal, with glow on your 

cheeks, the holy fire 

of the gods, for the sake 

of civilization. 

 

Everything has its price,

and you know yours.

Zeus breaks with you 

and Hephaestos chains 

you on a rock, where 

an eagle picks out your 

liver, again and again,

until Heracles frees you

from this sad  fate.

 
You're still warning your 

brother Epimetheus, for 

temptation of divine gifts. 

Nevertheless - the incorrigible 

hindsight thinker - marries 

beautiful Pandora, with her 

pernicious jar, that she

– Proto-Eva – cannot resist

for long, to misery of people.

 

Kalchas: questionable seer

 

Maybe I didn't really want 

to see what is, or what will 

come. I do not know the 

language of lost traces, and I 

see only afterwards the faded 

signs on flaking walls, omen 

of translucent birds. They didn’t 
prevent me from recommending 
that atoning sacrifice. Poor 
divination, Iphigeneia is always
on my mind.

 

I am wirelessly connected

to false notes on my staff: 

a password, ever sent to me, 

is for my memory too 

long. I am sitting on the 

worn cushion of a rolling 

chair, on my way to an

abyss that I will achieve 

foresight, laughing until 

I choke.

 

I drop time as a useless

instrument, I embrace 

chaos, I renounce duration, 

repeating doesn't exist. 

Finally I recognize a glimpse 

of an ungodly existence.

 

Alkinoos 

to Odysseus

 

I did not find

your ship on 

my beaches
where you
washed ashore,
no wreckage,

no goods and 

chattels, no ties

at all. Your past 
consists exclusively
of yourself. Your 
stories come slowly. 
They resemble the 
epic songs of passing 

singers, about love 
and war, passion 
and suffering,

recurring betrayal.

I'll take you home, 

vagabond.

Ithaka delayed
Odysseus' lamentation

 

I can hardly be further 

away, reaching with 

rigging and mast to
unmistakable signals 

from Ithaka, where 

I left you.


Trapped in the web

of fatal sisters, they 

torn - without 

compassion –  the

fragile wires of my 

faded provenance.

 

In rags of mist and a 

soft moon, my lamentation 

seems really hard to sing, 

I do not master fado, 

blues, or other elegies.

 

I should resist the

beckoning of tender, 

feathered Sirens,

to sail finally home.

 

Anodos - Kathodos

 

After months of meagreness

earth opens up, timid

and early, preparing

for the divine.

 

But, cyclical fate,

of what begins the end

is already said ahead, slow

transforms the new spring

in languid excess.

 

Hidden from decadent

sun glow, autumn is

waiting - with freakish 
shrill strokes - on the 
room summer is leaving, 

created to be worn out.

 

Inclement wind and rough 

rain allocate the days now,

until it winter pleases to 

descend - like Persephone, 

Demeter’s daughter:

tributary to Hades,

year over year.

 

Trojan

 

First hack: lady
kidnapped, not 
entirely against 
her will.
 
Last hack: game 
over, because of 
a treacherous horse,
meanwhile: a lot
pawns wasted.
  
Fingers of dawn, 
groping the burnt 
remains of a fortress 
that seemed so
impregnable.
  

Trojan woman
 

I could  easily have 
run into you, just 
around a corner, or 
at the marketplace, 
outside the city walls 
of Troy. Only coincidence 
got in our way, and a 
trifle like fourteen 
centuries. You said 
goodbye before I 
could arrive.


Due to time, we have

been separated from 

each other, your possible 
faces are anchored in my 
mind, they continuously
change, like stories I'm 
telling about you.

 
 

Possible faces

 

Multiple variety,

light and darkness, 

sculptors of your face

- it changes while I'm 

watching -  I see you 

often, your silhouette,

your looks, not steady 
enough to describe, yet
recognizable, occasionally. 
 
Trojan woman, I never 
knew you, but that doesn't
prevent me from seeing 
your possible faces. 

 

 

Hektor’s last fight

 

Daylight has not yet 

completely disappeared 

on the lower fields before 

the closed gates of my 

lofty town. 

 

The beast is coming

soon, I am his prey. 

The child cries: "Daddy, 

daddy!" and I curse my 

hubris. People stare as

petrified from high walls, 

to a king foretold, who 

will never be one. The
ruthless hunter drives 
me three times around 
the ramparts, until I face 
him in despair. 

 

If I will fall, hope and last 

dreams do also die, of those 

I love and leave too soon.