There is a cataract of blood over the dawn;
I know by watching
from the river’s fringes of wild grass

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

No one jumps off.
For we know only love

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

I am a dead man who wanders
nowhere announced

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

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

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

Beneath a foreign sky
shadow roses
shadow

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