I love the old
women with
the young limbs and
the young love –
the ancient old –!
– – – |
to become like that, o women,
you must be plundered
for all,
and against the innermost guardian
of your being
shall that, which you detest, be
invincible –
and over the backs of your necks
the cattle of
the earth must have wandered
without love, while
your insides scream:
take me, o
you my most beloved!
(GOD! are we born
in the show of splendour, just
to become more beautiful
the more naked we stand
with our scars –?)
– – –
and God, if it
is such, then I must
laugh at my own love, that
to become
old is to become
rich with You, and
to die in poverty, is
forfeiture –
aah, how I laugh –
aah aah aah –
– – – |
hm, you my new love’s
own bitch –
we are so rich,
I think, that
we can both laugh
at these young
beggars,
poverty-devils of four soul-years –
– – –
if I should kiss you
between
your wounds, there would
probably not be much
love –
and you have, and
I have
a hole for the Lord’s lightning, where-
through they unobstructed
shoot towards their destination –
thanks LORD, for
our TWO light years –
hm and thanks bitch
for… –