When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.

Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.

I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.

At the MoorWanderer in the black wind; quietly the dry reeds whisperIn the stillness of the moor. In the gray skyA flock of wild birds follows;Slanting over gloomy waters.Turmoil. In decayed hutThe spirit of putrescence...

For whoever is lonely there is a tavern.

The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.

The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.

Frost and smoke. A white shirt of stars burns your worn-out shoulders, and God’s vultures tear at your metallic heart.

The guilt of newborns is immense.

Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.

The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.

Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Despair, night in the grieving senses.