The priests lead the peasants out onto an elevated plain. They plant them in even rows like potatoes, amid fermented hills, on a gentle slope. The linden trees dress up and scatter their leaves. The peasants want to lead the priests out into the field. The priests defend themselves with little white hands. They loathe this heathen sowing. He who has returned to dust shouldn’t start blossoming.

the remains of flowers

To be the earth
to hold you tightly in my embrace
to bring you bitter scents of herbs
hungers of roots
to be the earth
to whisper in your ear
it’s me
mother and wife
to overcome fear
to be the earth
to crawl in sleep
through chalk pits
to hold your head
in my palms of clay
oh lips and eyes
dear feet and hands
turn happily to dust…