The most beautiful morning

Because I want to trust this morning.

That's way it's so nice to be here. At this quay.

The moon floats like a pale child in the river.

Water flows like passionate blood along the trees.

I am sitting here. And waiting. For what?

My fingers smell like tangerines and behind me

the town is finally awakening.

An old man with a mild form of arthritis.

In front of me - at the other side of the river -

cows are yawning in the stretched out pastures.

If you have something to celebrate

you should surely not forget to invite them.

That is still a long way off. For the time being

the sleazy fog lies like a gloomy thought on the river.

When a ship is passing. Imposing like Noah's ark.

Ordinary like a basket made of papyrus reeds.

The skipper sits on the railing. He speaks out loud.

His voice. His words. Mannequins from the forties.

Just before the ship disappears around the curve.

It is precisely at that moment. We look at each other.

The skipper and I. And suddenly I realize.

Understanding is the ability to distinguish

the heartening water from the miserable mists.