The game is called off. How can we
still believe in fairy tales? The branches
no longer shiver at night, no wild game
trundles through the woods and the thunderstorm
dissolves into clouds of flies. Nevertheless,
it holds fast: The itching under our feet
is not fir vestiges, not nettle leaf, we still follow
the rule of three, the seven mountains and
the fawn Little Brother and his beloved.
Tell me about the antlers on the wall, tell me
needles in the flies. At the right moment
we forgot to stumble.
Snow White is asleep.