Helmut Lauschke - Border and Word Breakthrough

Helmut Lauschke

Border and Word Breakthrough

Reflections

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The last breath The last breath Helmut Lauschke Border and Word Breakthrough Reflections It is the breath of the memory of a great love that you gave in an infinite way. Yes, it was a wonderful journey through the years, through the days. Great was the moment without the last question of where to go and why. Life goes into trains, in the counting of the trains you are having a hard time, especially when your heart is racing, when the love gives you more pain, that you lose your orientation and your sight and senses slip away and you are disturbed in the meantime. What will come, you have guessed it, it takes your strength and pushes you to the ground, as if it were the forest, the young, to clear, which is only growing with its trunks, the thin with the delicate bark and the root branches that begin to grasp in a ground that looks friendly towards you. It stays with you, the last breath, it's for you. My last eyelid will envelop you with the mantle of joy and longing. See that it is worn and has the patches of pain and loneliness on the sleeves.

The heavy long pipes The heavy long pipes They are made of steel and have thick walls, they are turned up, they are directed upwards, as if they were aiming at the dark point in the sky, one of the many buzzing points in the boundless freedom. The projectiles fly as it bums and molds under the timeless damp and stretches and stretches day by day. Yawn the mouths up and chew them down as long as there is chewing. It crashes and thunders and frenetically beats, that the old hand, which has been furrowed, shivers with the little bit of rice and tears the thin skin in fright. The hand is held up like a thousand other hands, as if sticking to walls. The old hand covers the washed-out stone that carries yesterday into the future.

If only you and you alone If only you and you alone burying you in me as in a stone, because the outside dies, what still lives deep down in the core, then nothing will out of me but the rest without will, which remains and is to tap off to the last dullness. What then can arise anew, that is something completely different, whose name nobody knows, and whose form from the unformed no one suspects and no one draws. That's the way it is, and that's the way it will be: the idea is great and powerful, we cannot stand against it, but we are carried far to it. It is a flight that does not stop after us.

Pull the splitter Pull the splitter from my breath and hold it tight, untie the fetter from your breath, that we breathe and taste some of the freedom in the lungs. It is the mourner for the silent, the once brave and happy helper, the friend of the children and the elderly. He will miss us on the fields of crops and crops, on the squares and streets of simple life. His words were: Rejoice in nature, which as our Mother gives us all. She does it abundantly and in a most wonderful way, because she leads us through her life as her children, her beautiful hand reaches out to us and lifts us, and carries and comforts us. Now the language lies perfected or unfinished in the gone-away, as if it sleeps for eternity in silence with the good heart, who now silently carries the past into the future and no longer thinks of returning to earth. It is imaginable that the friend of the children and the elderly watches out of the space of great freedom for what the people down here are trying to understand and often contradict each other. The mouth is open to the word, it needs breathing with the air, which moves the word to become audible. This astonishes the mouth to speechlessness when open openness is able to do so.

If the baskets If the baskets In the shafts continue to drive up and down, pull the ropes with the weight of melancholy with high. It needs the strong foot on the brake, if not everything is to collapse at the bottom. On the way down the thoughts go up, if there is enough food in the families. During the squeaking up in the winter, the memory lingers in the gallery below, asking whether there is enough coal to heat up at home. Baskets slide rumbling past each other, so do the thoughts and conjectures that blindly cross, collide and hit one another, that it could be a living conversation if there were fewer walls and more light. Ebrök, Bröke, o distant bridge of the understanding of words, language and thoughts. Listen, listen to the song and let the wavering, along the way cramp the calves by the accident until it dawns above the horizon and in the heads.

The rim ring The rim ring is battered, the sheet is bent, dented he urges the future. Like everything that pushes and urges. when it dislocates, it's about being. Hammer hammers, the scythes die, chips await the sweeping brooms. There were days, they saw the cleanliness. Not a word, not a syllable comes from the opened eyes. No place, not one comes in the twilight after sleepless night. Words, wordplay, word mirrors, word lines, word gyrations and word salad, things come back unexpectedly, if unexpected, that's the case with rings on the fingers, keys and rims. Who knows about sheets, bumps and rifles?

They slip on their knees They slip on their knees over rough and stony raised jagged floors. Nothing is smooth let alone soft, nothing should slide without wounds without pain. Lean are the bodies, hoarse are the voices of hunger, blows, and wavering senses, when the days are dark and garishly bright the nights. They name the names along the road, the rocky and endlessly long, which asks harshly for their names. Who then slips on his knees without a name, has lost and betrayed himself in the forgetfulness. Life on the knees is shorter to half the length than in the swinging or dizzy gait of the feet. Then it's the beatings against the mercy that bring the shortening to the body and to life. O salvation and well-being, if there is no other possibility than on the stumps, because the prolonging is cut off. Legs without feet are an abomination because prostheses are something dead to which the shortened, knee-creeping life is put on or off.

Dark ring shadow Dark ring shadow around the eyes, looking at the scratched finger ring. It is the unfamiliar morning view, which has become an unfamiliar and familiar view for months, because the morning yesterday differed only a few climatic nuances from the morning before yesterday. Something has slipped. But what exactly it is that is hard to say and therefore not to describe what is limited to the external circumstances, because the internal circumstances do not reveal themselves. It is the constantly reconstructed stalls that make the lateral considerations so difficult that there are no concrete results. Shadow, yes, because there is light that breaks in from the corners that pulls its strings through the day and then through the day. It is not so spotty that the firing jets make the soil hard and cracked and unusable for a harvest. Ring shadow edges the eyes, which the drought hurts because the food and drinking water problem reaches the extent that teach peoples and continents the fear of falling into starvation and the total dehydration of life. It becomes difficult to carry between you, the infinite, and me with being too short. The lamentation becomes heavy when the hope that is carried on fades, the pain flares up and the word 'love', O its high powers, is burned down to the last crumb.