I rode my bike when
the kind, large-sized postman
shouted after me and
drew letters of Mahler from his bag.

The book saw the light of day in the widow’s life;
and in the light treachery was seen:
a strongly retouched portrait of Almschili;
for the winners’ touch remain on memoirs and letters.

But Gustl. himself was not a harmless pigeon either;
into the masterpiece he ground not merely
his wife but bits and pieces of his musicians, of himself, too.
Longed to be a martyr for real,

or rather a witness of music
like the zealous monk with
the harpsichord on Giorgione’s painting.
A copy of the picture hung in his working room;

or rather He was its reproduction,
the incarnation of the tough and strict spirit
with his sole god to exhibit: music;
and with all the others subjected.

However, it is the merit of the
fame-specialist ever-lasting widow that she
published the book in silenced times;
when street names were again spat on,

And no one knew where he lived then,
And the Adagietto stormed out long before,
For it had its storm, its tempesting love,
its farewell to mortifying Europe.

I was happy to ride my way home,
I have the book at last, and you wait for me there.
When they spat again on street names,
We move together with our book.