on the sky’s deep
bottom of night
lies like coal
all the love-sparks –
silently they
flew one by one,
black pearls on
the bottom of the sky –
– – –
I, the Chosen One,
is tonight merely
the sleep-guardian,
the death-sword
at The Great Love’s
door –
under the matt-golden
portal with
crossed legs
I sit awake
with the guardian-sword on
my knee –
– – – |
the seed of the sky runs through
all roofs –
behind the door, where the
great love sleeps,
I hear without listening
the great birds whisper
of odourless wondrous
flowers –
every fire is
death –, and
the white plains press
all wind to itself
in violent sleep –
the jackals hold their breath
staring towards the sky
with blind eyes –
nobody smiles –
no mirrors collect dew –
THE GREAT LOVE
SLEEPS –
– – –
silky soft virgin-fogs
again slide over
whispering mouths and
dreamless laps
and between
the great love’s lips
string-lids are strung –
– – – |
nobody shall know
anybody after
this night –
and all features will
be melted,
when a morning comes –
– – –
when the violet boat
of the night flowers,
nobody shall be chosen,
and my queen shall
have lost her crown –