a poem by Wienke Niedermanner
Wisteria is growing
From a branch above my head,
In silvery lines it’s flowing
Like a bluish silken dress,
It lays itself around me
Like it’s laying down its head,
It buries me alive,
And I can’t stop it.
It’s too fast.
It fastens ‘round my muscles,
It fastens ‘round my flesh,
It fastens ‘round my ankles,
It fastens ‘round my chest.
This garden is my mausoleum,
I’m carved in stone, and you are praying,
Your knees are almost knitted to the ground,
But once you dare to go and move on,
I’ll still be blue, even if you’re gone,
A hundred years, but never I’ll be found.
A monument might be built up then,
A colossus of my own island,
An earthquake of forget will tear me down,
My ruins lie destroyed and ancient,
I’m littered with this wistful patience,
A noble trait, the rapine of my town.
It buries all my branches,
It buries all my seeds,
It buries all my hopeful
and passion driven dreams.
Wisteria is growing
From a tree somewhere nearby,
It reaches all my ruins,
It keeps them warm and dry,
It lays itself around me,
It’s as constant as a pine,
I cannot rip it off,
Although I barely
even tried.