Lied: I associate a quiet snowy landscape. Everything seems songlike, simple.
Under the blanket of snow: stanza after stanza: longing.
The contours are obscured-changed, receding into the distance. It could be like that, I think. »Yes, that's how it is« And for a brief moment: This is my world.
But: under the contours it is alive. And this life enters my head and makes me stop, startled. I close my eyes, see the vastness of the sky above the snow surface, hear the cracking of the ice above the river. I feel the power and the force. Mandatory, unconditional and straightforward.
Johannes Boris Borowski