Our field is the sky,
tilled by the sweat of motors,
in the face of night,

Whatever comes to pass: you know your time,
my bird, you put on your veil
and fly through the mist to me.

When at your back the seagull swoops and cries
the order to sink comes eastward into sight.

Beneath a foreign sky
shadow roses
shadow

Who is living down below? Who is crying…
Who has lost his housekey?

Nothing fairer under the sun than to be under the sun…

Filled by nothing other than our suffering.
Conform to us exactly!

I am a dead man who wanders
nowhere announced

 

Time does wonders. But should it come unjustly,
with the throb of guilt: we aren’t at home.

No one jumps off.
For we know only love

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
thorns illuminate the night. And the thunder