sometimes time can seem to stand still
if it ever even passed
or does it move in a wave pattern
pulsating through it all
in every direction
from each point
through the wet mists at sea
through the dense forests
through the silent erosion of the mountains
through the solitary peaks of the TV masts
through radio signals and telephone calls
staircases and letter boxes
or maybe it stands absolutely still

in this grain of light
in all directions
with a pale, white sun
like a ceiling lamp
which spreads an even light
but without heat
no contours, no latitudes

night in the desert
but the sharp cold is absent
a gray full moon
that is easily confused with the sun
lifeless, soulless

I mistook this place for my home
the mirages deceived me
fata morgana
the lights reflected from elsewhere
in the dry lakes in the distance
seemed to me to be the city
but they flow off
slip away
if we get too close

I thought it was you who came back
when in fact I was the one
who traveled to the place
where you were
and the dust I thought
you brought with you
was the salty sand
which tears my eyes
and dries my blood to dust

(painting: Carlos Herraiz)

Time Hurts The Place, SomoS, Berlin, 2020