A time comes when we no longer can say: my God. A time of total cleaning up. A time when we no longer can say: my love. Because love proved useless. And the eyes don't cry. And the hands do only rough work. And the heart is dry. They knock at our door in vain, we won't open. We remain alone, the light turned off, and our enormous eyes shine in the dark. It is obvious we no longer know how to suffer. And we want nothing from our friends.

Who cares if old age comes, what is old age? Our shoulders are holding up the world and it's lighter than a child's hand. Wars, famine, family fights inside buildings prove only that life goes on and not everybody has freed themselves yet. Some (the delicate ones) judging the spectacle cruel will prefer to die. A time comes when death doesn't help. A time comes when life is an order. Just life, without any escapes.

In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade; I hear my echo in the echoing wood-- A lord of nature weeping to a tree, I live between the heron and the wren, Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire! I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall, That place among the rocks--is it a cave, Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences! A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon, And in broad day the midnight come again! A man goes far to find out what he is-- Death of the self in a long, tearless night, All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire. My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. The mind enters itself, and God the mind, And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

Notes: Music of words, bloody music of words!