•
At the white phylacteries - the
Lord of this hour
was
a creature of winter, whatever
happened, it happened
for his sake -
my climbing mouth bit fast, once more,
when searching for you, you trace of smoke,
high above,
in the shape of a woman
on your way to my
fiery thoughts
in the black gravel
beyond the words of the chasm, through
which I saw you walk on high
legs with
your severe head
with its heavy lips
on that body made alive
by my deadly accurate
hands.
Tell your fingers
which accompany you
down into the crevices
how I knew you, how far
I pushed you into the depths where
my bitterest dream
slept with you, searching for your heart,
in the bed
of my irredeemable name.
Translated from the German
by
Luitgard N. Wundheiler
