I run across the woods,
avoid symmetrical fields,
and crash into the chalk mountain.
I search for words to report of you,
equivalents to your lips,
tongue, cheeks and boyish hair.
I might not return with butterflies,
a starry sky or a dark ocean.
But I know, if I ever return,
you will infuse my mind with words,
press me to your little breasts
and let me taste your tongue.
Hamburg, August 3, 2004