Siegfried Schreck

a poem

We Make Music

Everything dead
won't play the violin anymore,
isn't that sad?

The ones alive,
still sing loud.

We make music,
even the elephant in the zoo
enjoys playing the trumpet,
and the ocean has its orchestra,
and the moon has a
and we howl with the wolves,
and the rooster crows early in the morning,
and the cat catches the bird,

a song goes quiet
on its way
into a long silence.

by Siegfried Schreck
November 19, 1998

Translated from the German
by Silke Kueck

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