Tossing off three arpeggios, the pianist tosses me into expectation: I am a fisherman, casting out the net which you have weighted with stones. Hesitating, you wondered whether one more stone would be one too many, one less one too few: You have found the right tension, for in the clear water my net is suspended (the shadows of the stones tell me so). There is nothing to do now but wait. Listen: The music makes no claim to grasp meaning, the voice pursues its own phantoms. Before it’s over, Marietta, tell me: Why are you leaving me? Haven’t we been good at managing the distance that makes intimacy possible? Haven’t we found the right tension, the tension that allows us—time and time again—to sparkle in our self-becoming? Oh set your stones again, my love, the river has not yet reached the sea; let me cast the net again, beyond what you and I can see: Do you no longer have faith in me?
In den Flüssen nördlich der Zukunft
werf ich das Netz aus, das du
mit von Steinen geschriebenen
In the rivers north of the future
I cast out the net, which you