The tiny grass breathes besides the cemetery the dreams of the death.
At no other place the human heads are so close to the earth and even part of it.
They are one now with the dirt and the plants around are channeling their dreams.
Each fresh head still full of the life it lived,
a young girls laughing,
a wish blewn out of the window with a chinese lantern.
A wish for health, for more seaside hollidays
...
The older skulls grow quiet.
One with the stones where their names are written on, one with the sky
and the cold water in the vases and the insects.
The time gives all death the peace of heaven.
The tiny grass is silently celebrating oneness.
The aliveness of everything around comes over them, flows through,
like the wind bowing all their feelers to one side.
They dream they are on a planet and each and every one of them has a soul
and a purpose even though they are one forever.
They dream their good-feeling fever and bow and bow.
They dream the moon is their Goddess.
They dream they love her.
They enjoy to reach out in quiet longing.
They dream they sang aerials aerials before they came to the planet
and this caused their clean and green existence.
Inside out arose the greenness of their vivid souls.
Tiny grasses dream about snow
The moon laying herself on them
weightless and cold
so their dreams grow
immaculately white
and wider.
