Author: M.Z.
The silvery glass, framed in
what seems to be,
white, dotted plastic.
Reflected in it, a twin of his, creating,
showing, infinite times the same
room
– or the same part of room
pink, girlish, a red bow
and again – a grey one
and dead flowers too
dead yellow mimosas
held together by a yellow,
old piece of yarn.
And a girl, or a woman
– oh, it must be the owner
for her shirt matches, controls,
the pink
room behind her and the
dead mimosas.
But wait, you know that girl!
The shadow is familiar, though
her hair…
Her hair is different and her
eyes, there is a light within
them – a light that was
not there, when you knew her.
Oh, she looks like she knows it,
she looks like she knows you!
The light in her eyes, that sparkles
in the blue irises,
it says that – she won’t listen
– no, she won’t listen to you
nor to the other people
she knows, who do not know her
no more
No that can’t be right,
that girl
– no, for she is not a girl
no more –
she is a woman
– no, not quite
she is, in between
but firmly – yes, firmly! – convinced
she is fully grown.
That stubborn girl-woman (impossible
to know her height – why,
has it just changed?) with her
eyes, her blue eyes lit and
her hair, once black,
short, tidy, is now – wavy and messy.
She touches her hair, moves it away
from her face
– but wait, you are doing the same!
So you were quite right! You are
that girl-woman.
And she looks proud – I mean – you do
and sure that
Was ich weiß, kann jeder wissen.
Mein Herz hab‘ ich allein
Or – do I?