Streets of Weimar
I wandered around the streets of the city... ate a leg of deer with some weird Thuringer apertif at Zum Elefantenkeller. We'd just been to Buchenwald--up the hill, in plain view of rthe streets of Weimar, along the Teufelskrippe. Goethe and Schiller's gravestones, like long-lost lovers, music emanating still from Nietsche's black klavier... but we had changed.... forever.
Eerie silence of the woods. One lone yellow birch,
whose seed fell after the mass graves were turned,
grows as lank and tall as the forest of firs
that shadows it. At the gates, the temperature
drops ten degrees; when the mist parts at noon,
you can be sure you see settlements down below
in the towns of Ettersberg and Ramsla.
Surely then if anyone had peered at the sky
they would have known! If some old queen
or Bulgar Jew cries out and nobody hears...
how well do you know there was no sound?
Kilns pour black lather into Nephele's clouds--
droplets of something with a human smell
soak my overcoat and send me shivering home.