Elevator in stucco, a singer in the room, 3
Scenes in idiosyncratic, temporally independent monologues
Who, as an infant, escaped from the diapers, with
head with weakened hair and only drunk cheeks on the neck
already as the home of vocal garments, the small bed of deeply contaminated
singing flowers was stolen by whoever, standing boldly on the hunting tree, knee to knee
sulking in front of the wreath, and asking plaintively: was a little song believed to be dead,
was my wine tuner band forever? Whether fire heats the dead flesh, whether the little heart does not end in time, whether the singer is the downpour of our language-worn intellectual age, the shower of lightning ground and alarm clock of half-infested vocal herbs? Just take the knight, how he crosses with black blood and brass robe, in all the soaring trains, let a man's song circle like angels on the vault! Just take the hunter, the beater and the servant, be it that from all of the handkerchiefs and snotty loops a baby can escape, the nightingale is hiding in every bed of song flowers! So I turned Lavater's back and disappeared into the eerie old cloud wings, the one he had described to me I was looking for in the pinnacle from mountain and valley. A sorrow-born little air I took the mountain chasm. Whether he could do it like that Quidenus' little voice, Quidenus was the name of the gold-dusted little throat I found in the picture book of the middle of the valley. First I asked Darkly for the silent night's end
and begged for the truly forgiven little place I need to cover all my lovely
eye pupils for a few hours, then from Baumeskron already time
I crept away in Grasse Peace and end, to always sink your muddy feet into the slumber of little yellow flowers. The sleep I dreamed had to end before the dream image, and the little dream came with the hand and call of that beloved singing lichen. First I look at the vault, finally look at all the Astres' End, whether the larks accompany me a dream feeling. But
it seemed as if in all my tiredness the singer Quidenus was awakened,
the middle of his neck gave sound and tone in already hidden stars, the
dream I plan' he certainly had. Oh little voices, you
magnets, you bells of the planet, what heavy sounds rise me from
innocent slumber, I once thought that the
spirit world remains closed, and tears mourn the pain of waking dreams. But pain with a half-frozen heart is far from being a cold kiss, with lips blue like ice cream, with eyes as small as fried potatoes, I then turned Quidenus' head, let my ears continue to wake up and died quietly , dull songs.
Quidenus, crouching in the moor, seemed to tire of day's light, with a manly loud voice he was soon united with sleep's little bed.
I boldly asked in little songflower's bed, darkened me morning sun'
the Blatterpfag, after a proudly awakened night I shot up into the
land, finally went home to stay awake at night from now on!

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