IF EVER I MUST SING AS POETS HAVE
When I wander through the forest with words,
would Hesse like to go with me?
When the seasons change in my poem,
would Rilke watch it cheerfully?
When I write the sadness from my soul,
would Hölderlin truly understand me?
When Christmas candles are burning in my text,
would Eichendorff hear the chiming bells?
When I put all my love on a sheet of paper,
would it on Goethe's heart cast a spell?
When I've done my best to create a sonnet,
would it seduce Shakespeare as well?
I call myself a poet,
but am I really one?
Is there a space among the great,
a place where I belong?
Will anyone remember me
when I'm dead and gone?
© Michelle Klemm