TEXT 7 Z 17
VI
Two photographs are standing on the small table.
One absence has a grave.
The second address.
One star went out.
The other still shines
in the constellation,
to which I do not belong.
At night between them
I cannot tell the difference.
Not one of them moves
when I enter the room.
Not one of them turns around
when I speak her name.
Which of them makes me a widower?
The one who died?
Or the one who lives
at such a distance
that her light will never
reach me again?
I stand between two stars.
One was taken from me by death.
The other by life.
And I don't know,
which darkness is greater.
