Ballad of Aunt Else’s Refugees
It s cold in Schlossberg. The stoves are full
of our nails and hairs. The lift with coal and matches
remained stuck in the middle of the hairdresser s by the City Gate.
We had our forelocks trimmed for free there
and now we look at each other as if in a mirror, pH neutral.
When Aunt Else adds knitting to our slippers
we play darts: she aiming her blue knitting needle
at our hearts, we our red at hers.
Gruss gott.
and accelerates the asylum procedure.
And love. It s going to be all right, Aunt Else says.