Calling longing

 
I will soon be forty. But between my two arms, the happy, cherishing feeling of the One-Dear One could not have drawn me into its magical magical power, and I begged the defiant, proud Angel as a supplicant: Take care of me as long as I live!

Our love, which we believed to be immortal, as well as the unshakable summoning of loyalty, the metaphorical chain of relationships, was deliberately discouraged by this current grotesque age infected with material success.

Tolerating it - I have already experienced it - is only rarely possible, like the anxious Sisyphus who was often chased away. - I could have been a child in your arms again, who could not be disturbed or threatened by a vengeful Fate, or a petty individual interest, would not be called to you by an uncertain distance, a landless distance.

I would be a humble fisherman of true pearls, in the secret wells of romantic souls, or maybe a news-teller, a witness who wants to hide. In his doe's eyes, strange and playful flames blazed, even on the beach of homesickness, our two hands could be connected in a dignified way...

Eternal, findable happiness, ecstatic-like holy harmonies can no longer wait for me with their sufficient patience, if I turn you into an autumn-worried figure, maybe you can visit me one last time, if you want too.

How much I long for you now, even if, on sleepless nights full of tossing nightmares after the life-giving sunlight or oxygen, your blinding star gaze could be closer to me, when you look hesitantly into the eyes of an orphaned child, caress and comfort me, like good mothers do to orphaned children thrown into the cold world - my unfortunate-pitiful onion-skin self will calm down if I can feel your still existing flame. Stay mysterious, like the bottomless lake, and talkative like the chattering canary bird - you yourself have said many times: everyone deserves a second chance!