Grauen O Zeit! 0 Zeit! 0 Feuer im Gehirn! Feuer, von dem Unglaublichen entzündet! Die Güte fiel. Die Dichter stehn erblindet. Bekränzt mit Kraut und irrem Laub die Stirn. Gott! Tausend stehn und tausend Tote stürzen. Schrei mir den Grund, der die in Stücke bricht. Und wenn der stark genug ist, Leben zu verkürzen. Dann laß uns zitternd knien vor dem Gericht. Nicht trunkne Lieder werfen in die Welt: Die Tat ist klein und jedes Wort ist klein, Und wenn die groß ist, stürzt dies ganz zusammen. Schrei mir den Grund! Gott! der den Tod erhellt. Zu dem sich rasend Mensch und Mensch entflammen Und Stich und Stich in Herz und Herz hinein.
- Paul Kraft -
(* 28. April 1896 Magdeburg, † 17. März 1922 Berlin)
aus: Versensporn 49. Paul Kraft. Jena 1922

Heute statt musikalisch wieder etwas Literarisches:
Sieben Rosen hat der Strauch
Sechs gehör'n dem Wind
Aber eine bleibt, daß auch
Ich noch eine find.
Sieben Male ruf ich dich
Sechsmal bleibe fort
Doch beim siebten Mal, versprich
Komme auf ein Wort.
Ein Video von Liam Hurley
He opens his eyes falls in love at first sight
With the girl in the doorway
What beautiful lines and how full of life
After thousands of years what a face to wake up to
He holds back a sigh as she touches his arm
She dusts off the bed where 'til now he's been sleeping
And under miles of stone, the dried fig of his heart
Under scarab and bone starts back to its beating
She carries him home in a beautiful boat
He watches the sea from a porthole in stowage
He can hear all she says as she sits by his bed
And one day his lips answer her in her own language
The days quickly pass he loves making her laugh
The first time he moves it's her hair that he touches
She asks, “Are you cursed?” He says, “I think that I'm cured”
Then he talks of the Nile and the girls in bulrushes
In New York he is laid in a glass covered case
He pretends he is dead people crowd round to see him
But each night she comes round and the two wander down
The halls of the tomb that she calls a museum
Often he stops to rest but then less and less
Then it's her that looks tired staying up asking questions
He learns how to read from the papers that she
Is writing about him and he makes corrections
It's his face on her book more and more come to look
Families from Iowa, upper west siders
Then one day it's too much he decides to get up
And as chaos ensues he walks outside to find her
She's using a cane and her face looks too pale
But she's happy to see him as they walk he supports her
She asks, “Are you cursed?” but his answer's obscured
In a sandstorm of flashbulbs and rowdy reporters
Such reanimation the two tour the nation
He gets out of limos he meets other women
He speaks of her fondly their nights in the museum
But she's just one more rag now he's dragging behind him
She stops going out she just lies there in bed
In hotels in whatever towns they are speaking
Then her face starts to set and her hands start to fold
And one day the dried fig of her heart stops its beating
Long ago on the ship she asked, “Why pyramids?”
He said, “Think of them as an immense invitation”
She asked, “Are you cursed?” He said, “I think that I'm cured”
Then he kissed her and hoped that she'd forget that question
Nachts
Ich fürchte den Tod.
Ich gebe es zu.
Ich fühl mich bedroht.
Auch du und du.
Ihr habt Angst wie ich
Vor dem Krebs und vorm Krieg.
Das behält man für sich
Und glaubt an den Sieg
Der Vernunft und der Wissenschaft.
Gott geb uns allnächtlich zum Glauben
Die Kraft.
- Eva Strittmatter -