Still there is
clear, sharp light
Still there is
clear, sharp light
April-spring’s
light
Still the sky is
being stretched, pale, gleaming
The earth dry,
granulous
after the snow
Touch its brittle
surface
with the fingers
of the
imagination
It is cold Being stretched
within me is a new
rhythm
that is far beyond
all destruction
For a long time
I have been living
among gleaming shadows
in a mother of
Hades A wing
breaks out
A leaf, an
oar
Everything is
already white
Everything is
already delight
The heart of the
deep sun
The ache within
the heart The
breathing
in, in
The sun’s
oarstrokes
The quivering
water
It is still cold
Still nothing has
opened
Still nothing has
died
Everything wakes
up so slowly
So slowly that we
are
almost dying
Come with me, out
An oar-blade
stratches your forehead
A sparkling
writing of stars
And is
the deep voice of
humanity
All language dies
out
All language dies
so slowly
We will die out
completely
Also in the ultimate task
We write in the
language of the stars
which is not the language of a human
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