Rebecca Müller

Editha Marugg

Her grey hair flew in the wind,
her skin is stiff like leather,
marked by age,
like the roads were marked,
from Li Curt to reality.
She travelled all of them,
leaving Li Curt,
where people still believe in witchcraft.
Knowing everything about growing herbs,
maybe she was a witch as well.

She used to brew her dandelion liqueur,
but reality’s residents didn’t understand,
when she whispered in Poschiavin:
‘It won’t make you drunk,
if you drink it fast enough!’

Reality’s residents didn’t understand,
So she learned to speak their language
Buying her herbs at Wal-Mart, now,
Dying her hair a proper brown.

I wish, she’d still talk to me in Poschiavin,
Because that was the language I understood.


Help me please,
I’m drowning in loneliness!
Throw me a lifehug,
Give me a mouth-to-mouth-kiss!

Strange joke

The way you treat me?

Dust princess

Dust princess, desert
rose, a gold fish swimming in
her bellybutton pond


The old fisherman was riding a Vespa when I first met him. Jean-Paul; he looks like a Jean-Paul at least, fitting into the scenery: fishing all day long. ‘Have the fish been biting?’ I stumble in French. – ‘Oui, mais ils étaient trop petits’; he’ll have pasta for dinner.

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