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November in the Former GDR

The almighty Cyclops-eye went behind the clouds and the grass shuddered in the coal dust.Beaten sore and stiff from last night’s dreams we climb aboard the train that stops at every station and lays eggs.It’s rather quiet. The clonging from the churchbells’ buckets collecting water. And someone’s unrelenting cough telling off everything and everyone.A stone idol is moving its lips: it’s the city. Where iron-hard misunderstandings rule among kiosk-attendants butchers sheet-metal workers naval officers iron-hard misunderstandings, academics.How my eyes ache! They’ve been reading by the glowworm-lamps’ faint light.November offers caramels of granite. Unpredictable! Like world history laughing at the wrong place.But we hear the clonging from the churchbells’ buckets when they collect water every Wednesday —is it Wednesday?— that’s what’s become of our Sundays!