The Old Man remembers

The Old Man
remembers: Once sat
on a bench. By a lake.
Sundown. Slight breeze
at night. My prince
once slid across these waters,
the fearsome king, the
warlord, woeful and
alone. Whatever became of my
greyhounds? Of my
snuffboxes and other precious
belongings? Of Prussia?
Of Silesia? Of Potsdam?
The waves ebb away, history
also stands still, silence
all round, as you know. Only
glances from living bodies
know more about the
boundless story
of things to come.


Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser