THE TOWER OF BABEL
In the Tower of Babel
neither up nor down,
nothing has been completed.
To invent a ‘Good-morning’
one walks the whole world
and noon comes already,
so that the new language
does not recognize anyone.
I bleat from the seventh floor:
from the window downwards
nothing new ever happens:
rain falls in torrents
swaying in the hips.
The world slyly takes on a serpent form
and now pushes the cover away.
Like an obstinate horse
the tower does not fall.
It exercises its wings
on different plains,
changes its shape
with each movement.
An still fool is standing aside.
Sooner or later
the World will perform a somersault
and become a hat-of-invisibility
that will drop on the fool’s head.
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