Used
together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The
keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A
hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used,
used
up.
A
household order maintained. Said. Done.
And
always a head was there.
I've
fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, with summer.
With
Village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a
bed.
Kept
a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
bowed
before something, was pious to a nothing
(-to
a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper) ,
fearless
in religion, for our bed was the church.
From
my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From
my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.
By
the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue.
The
ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.
It's
not you I've lost,
but
the world.
Ingeborg
Bachmann
