Our field is the sky,tilled by the sweat of motors,in the face of night,at the risk of our dreams---…. … … … …Who lived there? Whose hands were pure?Who glowed in the night,A ghost to other ghosts?Who lives down below? Who cries….Who has lost the key to their house?Who can’t find their bed, who is sleepingon the steps of the stairs? When morning comes, who willdare interpret the silvery trace: look above me…When the water pushes the watermill wheel once again,who will dare remember the night?
-Ingeborg Bachmann
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