Markus Stegmann: Translation for Yves and Sampurna

I see a mossy lake in your lungs giving bearth to some bony birds flying out of Sweden while some of us sitting at the edge of Zürich with hair like firs of Black Forest. I decided to join but forgot the breath of my brain somewhere near Ferrette, France, walking along a stony cross in the silver sky. A jungle man below me, sruby fog, is gobbled up by unpainted paintings: with the frequency of his bones we could build a palace for the elks.

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