Heine Dying | Aidan Andrew Dun
The thin partition between the worlds
grows thinner day by day. He dies.
No mountain underneath can soften
the contours of this valley below.
In the next apartment a small piano
disgorges strange renditions. Ach Gott!
The iron roar of the ocean of Paris
forms a vast chord underneath.
Had he married the Landgrave's daughter
health would be sound if fame uncertain.
Every false note shrieks from a left hand
hammering the name of a cheap wooden girl.
Death is always out of tune and early,
thumping away in the small hours.
The demon seems to transmit himself freely.
Walls and morals don't keep him out.
Another surge of the agony rises.
Is this the wave that will float him off?
The dividing wall is transparent blue water.
Behind is the discordant angel.
She has the golden hair of Deutschland.
Listen! She plays a Dresden harp.