The rising wald is auburn, the lake
so still swans seem painted and the hotel’s lawns
that last, lush green before October dies.
Breakfast is muted. Beyond service doors,
a wireless is switched on. Each swing utters
a broken voice. “Oh Mensch! Gieb Acht!…sorrow
is deep…but joy more profound than the heart’s
agony…” And most of the guests look up
towards sun on the woodlands, the war
and smile. But some, as yet only a few,
say to themselves, “The forces of love
are seduced in the marches of the will.
Under glittering waters is oblivion –
but not soon, please, not soon!”