And while my little friend,
the nightingale,
is weeping in those woods,
I, secure in my sleeping house,
am drinking of the dark air.
I am swimming in the end,
I breathe the warm atmosphere,
floating above misty fields,
these days will end,
the glassy hedge grews under seven moons,
and I promise eternal love.
I, secure in my sleeping house,
am drinking of the dark air,
I am swimming in the end,
I breathe the warm atmosphere.
Oh, I long for living words;
Oh, I hunger for poetic flowers;
Oh, I search for tranquillity in lyrical arts;
Oh, I desire beloved silence for my tired limbs;
I curse you, don´t dream of me;
I dismember your flesh.
I lap your faith.
I sear you, my love.
Don´t dream of me.
I murder in words, seduced in poetry.
I cry for totality.
Sing, little bird, sing.
Please, gladden my mind, flying wish.
Anxiously, I am hidden in my chamber,
hungering for poetic flowers.
I am searching.
