Literature: poetry XI



the dramatist, rid of dialogues 
by Kilian

these days
snow covered
my house and garden
not undue the hour, calm, sanguine,
breathe on the window pane
as the blurred air fades
I begin to draw,
somewhere else, find
not much more than
what I'd won
long before, already
reached what there's to be at,
undoubted, my lands
end earlier than I thought
they would, comforting
that I know them well
for they embrace
with careful hands
the outward,
my wicked good