1

                          so klares blau
                   und warmer wind des
                             sommers ging durchs gras
                       die halme wogten
                            in der ferne
                zuckte eine peitsche
                                 ihr knallen
                           schwindend klatschend
                                    durch die luft
                        und dir zu füßen
                                 riesig    stumm 
                             und   nah
                         lag jenes etwas
                               groß in seinem
                              letzten irren schmerz
                         und war
                               und war
                                            nicht mehr
                               und war
                                            doch da
 
 
 

                                                    2

                            so plötzlich
                       eingekreist
                                    im kessel
                                eines tals
                            am berghang
                                      mulde
                                   so geschützt und warm

                                da    fielen   sie
                       so  viele        jeder    so   allein
                                   fielen für sich

                              und fielen ein
                                   in ein gestöhn
                                             in schrei’n

                          und wortlos
                             stießen sie
                                        ihn aus   den schrei
                               und er verstummte
                                        ebbte
                                   blieb
                                             in   stein
 
 
 
 

                                                     3

                           die kreatur gesehen

                      eingeholt   gefangen
                            festgefroren
                         im moment des vergehens

                überm tal stand der
                         wächter

                     die stelen drohlich
                          hielten fest: ein bild

                         gaukler des todes
                           machtvoll
                        spottend
                                   des leids
 
 
 
 

                                                        4

                                            an der erde
                                        halt  suchend
                                             in sie sich
                                                     hineinfliehend
                                              hineinkriechend
                                             angeschmiegt 
                                                 im letzten
                                                   lebensmoment

                       
                                               dann ,  dort
                                          ragten sie in das blau 
                                                                     der weite
                                          
                                                     gefroren schon
                                                    in der todesstarre
                                                             gefangen

                                                    arme ,  beine 
                                                            verdrehte köpfe

                                                        ein röcheln
                                                            festgehalten
                                                           im  erstarrten kiefer
                                                                    
                                                                     dem
                                                             weitoffenen 
                                                                           mund
 
 
 
 

                                                        5

                                       das elend der welt
                                      nicht irgendeiner – 
                                              unserer

                                   wo nicht kriege nur
                                        der kreatur den garaus machen

                                      mir graust vor dir, mensch

                                         sagt uns das geschöpf
                                                               verendend

                                            mir graust vor dir

                                       denn du wirst enden
                                                     wie ich
 
 
 
 

                                                              6

                                            gerippe noch und noch
                                                der tod spielt auf
                                                  zum tanz
                                              des großen vergessens
                                                    der tod spielt auf
                                                 zum letzten liebesakt
                                                       wo fleisch
                                                     und erde sich paaren
                                                         wo der mund
                                                           erde isst

                     
                                                          ihr samen sprießt
                                                             aus Euren gedärmen

                                                            morgen schon
                                                                 morgen

                                                        wenn jenes ende naht
                                                              jenes stille
                                                           jenes unaufhörliche
                                                             jenes kaum noch
                                                                        aufzuhaltende
                                                                 an dem ihr arbeitet
                                                                          tag für tag
 
 

                                                                        7

                                                       aufgerichtet noch
                                                            wie verwundert 
                                                      siehst du das land
                                                            siehst den hang
                                                          die weite des himmels
                                                               fühlst fühlst

                                                              das   etwas   naht

                                                       es kommt heran von fern
                                                                 wie ein jetfighter
                                                         es kommt heran
                                                                    von ganz nah
                                                              wie ein schmetterling

                                                                      es berührt dich leicht
                                                                             mit dem 
                                                                                   rand
                                                                            seiner flügel

                                                                           es ist ein ende

                                                                               es ist deines

                                                      Du zogst in die schlacht des lebens
                                                            Du tanztest nach den regeln
                                                                      die man dir gab
                                                                Du zahlst
                                                                                        den preis
 
 
 
 

                                                                   8

                                             ein schlachtfeld war’s
                                        es erscheint in einem
                                                        film seiner endlosrolle

                                               wieder und wieder
                                                                erscheint es
                                                       in deinem traum
                                              ein schlachtfeld war’s

                                                   Jena    Auerstedt
                                                      Belgrad das Amselfeld
                                                die Moneda
                                             es war Dien Bien Phu
                                                    Stalingrad war’s
                                                   oder Berlin
                                               ein schlachtfeld war’s
                                                    Ramallah
                                                                Bagdad
                                                 die kleine stadt
                                                      in El Salvador
                                                               am rande des waldes
                                                   ein schlachtfeld war’s
                                                              wo sie starben
                                                          Sie leben    nie wieder
 
 
 
 
 

                                                              9

                                               die trauernde
                                           war sie geliebte
                                                      gehilfin
                                                war sie ein tier
                                               war sie mensch

                                             da hockt sie   sphinx
                                                 den kopf gesenkt
                                                vergraben
                                                  in das rätsel
                                                        des lebens

                                            ihr schmerz
                                                         nichts als ein
                                                  Warum
                                                           Warum   so
                                             Oder auch, die stille
                                                                         Gegenstimme
                                                Warum, flüstert sie
                                              warum nicht
                                                                  ganz anders? 
 
 
 
 

                                                          10 

                                                Aufgerissen   weit
                                                                 das maul
                                             sie schleppten dich mit
                                                         kreatur
                                                     in den krieg

                                                 du trugst den
                                                      der dir die sporen gab

                                                   du spürtest ihn fallen
                                                       als es dich traf
                                                     als das fleisch brannte
                                                         und nichts ihn bannte, den schmerz
                                                                    als austrat
                                                                                    das gedärm
                                                                   aus dir ausfloß:  das
                                                                                      Leben
                                                               jemand riß dich noch hoch
                                                                         es war der tod
 
 
 
 
 

                                                            11

                                                         zerrt
                                                       sperrt sich
                                                     weigert sich
                                                                zu gehen
                                                      will noch stehn
                                                        will atmen
                                                           will leben
                                                       kann nicht mehr
                                                               bebend    flehend   schreiend
                                                                      sich erheben
                                                                  Es ist aus  so plötzlich
                                                                         das spiel
                                                                 wenn das gevatterle
                                                                     der machtgeile greis
                                                                dir auf die schultern tippt

                                                                 die kleine spinne
                                                                         kroch weg
                                                              der frosch quakte
                                                                            in dem versteckten graben
                                                                        in den man dich schickte
                                                                            in dem du starbst
                                                                                        für nichts
                                                                                                
 
 

                                               The next day
                                  the wind was gone almost
                                     
                                          a butterfly
                                              appeared briefly
                                            and vanished
                                                              Another one
                                                 its pale yellow
                                         lighting up like the dancing petal
                                                       of a wild flower
                                                           briefly caught
                                                                        my attention

                           Trees threw short shadows
                        The shrubs on the opposite slope
                                  formed dark knots
                               on the short grass

                     The greys   
                                  light and dark
                                                        shadows
                                           gave way
                                      to sunlit stone

                                  recalled
                              a distant time
                                     full of crowds
                                clad in grey, dusted uniforms

                         As I took in
                    the figures  spread on
                                 the ground below me
    
                         I thought of massacres
                                Wounded Knee
                            Custer’s battlefield
                                    near the Little Bighorn
                          a French village
                            its population murdered
                                                              by the SS
                             
                             a penal company
                          wiped out,   except for 3 soldiers
                                on a day in May
                               in the marshlands
                                                   near Leningrad
 
 
 
 

                                A girl sits in the
                                        shadow
                                   regarding the dead

                               How long is it
                                           they have been lying here
                                    –  A  generation ?
                                      Two   even?
                                          Longer ?    Shorter ?
                                              I don’t know

                             Their memories have
                                             merged with the grass
                                  Their brains   washed out
                                                 by the rain
                                      The skulls    empty
                                     remain a cup

                                               of bitterness
                                           ready to catch

                                                 a tear
 
 
 
 
 

                                                   Blue plastic
                                                of a push cart
                                                    placed next to the
                                                                 grey concrete
               
                                            The little girl skips and laughs
                                                   She does not know today
                                         the intensity of the marriage
                                                of flesh and earth
                                               as the tired bones
                                                 cling, so closely now
                                                  to  the tender ground

                                              Such a young body
                                                 Its shattered chest
                                                     ripped open
                                                   laying bare
                                                                    the ribs
 
 
 
 
 

                                                           Sad
                                                        Surrender

                                                 the face expressed it
                                                       a surrender
                                                         in the bloom of life

                                                     a surrender
                                                             to the senseless
                                                           inanity
                                                        the senseless
                                                                 futilty
                                                         the senseless
                                                                    scandal

                                                          of a violent
                                                               premature
                                                                  death                                                              
 
 
 
 
 

                             below your soldier’s coat
                                        opened wide
                                  I counted your ribs

                          They opened you
                              like a pig is opened
                                    by the butcher

                              below your soldier’s coat
                                      I saw your legs
                                   the joints of the hip
                                         the knee cap
                                        the bones
                          They lay visibly before me
                                    as visible
                                 as your soldier’s boots

                              As I stare at you
                                  trying to comprehend
                                 yet unable to comprehend
                                 you stood there still
                                    after so many years
                                      your hands 
                                          raised
                                       your face
                                           sorrowful
                                    the look    a reproach
                                        your slanted mouth
                                              shut
                                        unable to speak
                                          to cry out loud
                                            your wounds
                                              your pain
                                            your short protest

                                        So many years have passed
                                                 since you died
                                          They are still killing each other
                                                Nothing has been learned yet
 
 
 
 
 
 

                                             The moment caught
                                            again and again
                                                a moment of
                                                                surprise
                                             a moment of
                                                          Ah – it’s me

                                         You saw so many die
                                                      next to you
                                                 in a day
                                                    in a week
                                                       in a year

                                                  Now,  struck
                                                            out of the blue of
                                                                 an endless day
                                                        you know suddenly

                                                              It is your turn
 
 
 
 

                                 The memory goes on and on
                               The turn of a century
                                     was hardly 3 years old
                                   when you were born
                           The big massacre started
                                when you were 
                                          not yet twelve
                               When you were 36
                             the slaughter started anew
                                     millions driven
                                into the fields of slaughter
                                                           of Europe
                                  millions into those
                                                      of China
                                                    of the Pacific
                              When you survived it all
                                    and came back
                            the unforgettable asked
                                            forget me not
                                        it asked   Tell
                                                 tell it on that
                                                               mountain
 

                                     Today  people
                                          come to this mountain
                                 look down into a 
                                                     quiet valley
                                Look on to the rims
                                             of the range
                              the delimitation of the next valley
                                        a tree-studded horizon

                         The figures, grey slabs of concrete
                                       you fashioned
                                   out of agony
                                               and fear of loss
                                          of consciousness
                                              and history and all
                                 they lie before us, speaking
                                       speaking of the pain
                                      unspeakable and endless
                                               and yet true

                                                    I know
                                             you knew it all
                                                 & could not speak
                                                                              except
                                         in this vast way that merges
                                                          with the land
 
 

                                       I see snow falling
                                  wrapping the fallen figures
                                        I see mist rising
                                      On a cool autumn day

                                   The clouds move on
                                         like ships in quiet waters
                                      Again, a butterfly
                                             crosses my careless sight

                                  How far back
                                          do my thoughts wander?
                                      How far away
                                 when it all happens
                                                              next door…

                                           The loss evoked
                                          is a loss felt
                                            by that old woman
                                            I met in the street
                                                                  this morning

                                        the woman who entered my kitchen
                                             whose young husband
                                                 did not return
 
 
 
 
 

                                            one eye hid  
                                                        in the ground
                                           you stared at me
                                                  with your other one
                                                             still open 

                                           your dark cheek and chin
                                                    and mouth    
                                                                      merged with the earth        
                  
                                                I could not hope
                                                   to hear your voice 
                                                                               speak to me
                                                     
                                               As my eyes stroked
                                                      the flesh of your throat

                                              I could not hope your chest
                                                     would heave
                                                                     and breathe and
                                                                  you would rise

                                                        But some may 
                                                                      have promised you
                                                             that kind of thing
                                                          as they were sending you
                                                                 to meet
                                                                             your death
 
 
 
 
 

                                       withered, the roses
                                    Gone, the illusion of love
                                         Meat,   I find
                                        Rotting meat
                                            falling off
                                                  the bruised, broken
                                                              bones
 
 
 
 
 

                                  a thistle grows
                                                      from his hand
                                his head a big
                                              open wound
                                     a bloody hole
                                  through which to inspect
                                    the bottom of things
                                          the earth
                                      that will eat him

                                He doesn’t believe it yet
                                            as the body
                                          forms 
                                                     a bulging bridge
                                             his abdomen rising
                                                                     towards the sky

                                               Offered to the sun
                                                 offered to
                                             the birds of prey
                                              the curious wayward fox
                                                       a stray dog
                                                    in a cold winter night
                                                 he doesn’t know it yet
                                                        he doesn’t know
                                                         he doesn’t know…
 
 
 
 
 

                                        I saw the horse
                                    it had carried the hero
                                             the hero
                                            is no hero now
                                          he is dead     
                                 As his meat converses
                                                 with the worms
                                          I can hear
                                                the whinnying horse
                                                                        laughing

                                         “I carried him          
                                                                here,”  it says
                                   “I carried him
                                                       to the worms, my hero”

                                       “now he rides with the worms
                                                  now I’m free
                                             finally free of his load
                                                       as I lie here
                                                       under the burning sun – 
                                               
                                                       a hero’s horse – 
                                                                torn to pieces”
 
 
 
 
 

                                                like a woman
                                            ready to receive
                                                  he had opened his legs
                                                           in the moment of death

                                           the chest the arms
                                                       the head
                                                   so suddenly
                                                               so tired

                                            Is it like this he was
                                                         awaiting the end
                                                 the few seconds left…?

                                                      Like a woman
                                                    receiving
                                                      penetrated by
                                                      was it love?
                                                     was it revulsion?
                                                            or just plain steel – 
                                                       
                                                 the exploded fragments
                                                                 of a shell
 
 
 
 
 

                                                huddled
                                              like a child
                                          like an unborn child
                                                     the knees
                                                forming a sharp angle
                                           like an embryo in a 
                                                               mother’s womb
                                               he lay there
                                              on his side
                                                    in his final seconds

                                             When they found him
                                                             they knew
                                              there was no mother
                                                      again to give birth
                                               no womb he could spring from again
                                                            No moment
                                                     when curiously
                                                            he would open his eyes

                                                             There was only the horror
                                                               of a final silence
 
 
 
 
 

                                        This, I believe
                                           is the Oracle, 
                                                   he said
                                               the past
                                                   & the future

                                     Yes, the other one said
                                             Yes, maybe
                                          And ALWAYS
                                               It’s death
                                            Death
                                         if we don’t do 
                                                          anything

                                               This, I think
                                                    is the guardian
                                                 the first one said

                                                         Yes
                                             the other one said
                                                & what is he
                                                      guarding?
                                                What if not
                                                      the memory of it 
                                                What if not
                                                        the wish
                                                      to change things
 
 

                                                                       - Andreas Weiland