When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.
— Georg Trakl
Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.
Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.
The guilt of newborns is immense.
I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.
The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.
Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.
For whoever is lonely there is a tavern.
Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.
The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.
