I am rising
smell-mists from a
creeping night-flower –
violet fogs does not
exist by day,
wins no faith
in the transparency of the day’s
life –
therefore: come
not in towards
the spirit-lips of the smell-trumpet’s
whisper-mouth –
come not
near –
what for me
is the night’s holy
garden
with living air
with a thousand languages
and no word
and a love so |
gory that you would
see stones and
no love –,
the holy garden of night
is for you
death, you
comical –
but as long
as the millions are anxious
and don’t whisper:
see, therefrom –,
therefrom, where the sight
is barred entrance –,
therefrom shall
the saviour-hyacinth slow-
ly sprout –
from the waves of soil
shall already
the root whisper:
all lives and
clothes are hatred –
as long as the people
worry,
death shall be
their only little
piece of jewelry –
and when nobody no longer
worries, first
then shall the shaped
colours of darkness roar,
and growth’s
surge shall banish
the coast of day – |
stalks shall rise
with a thousand
banner-leaves, with
lavish power,
with overwhelming
riches from
the steel-locked
garden of night,
and the seed shall
fall like a
foreign sun:
devouring
power-giving
eternity-promising:
A New Life
for everyone, who
isn’t worried to
take a step –
the garden of night is
open –
the gates wait –
each leaf trembles:
Come Long Awaited
Love, All
Lives, And Merely Clothes Are
Hatred –, o come You,
whom I Always have
Loved and Always will
Love in cheering Eternity –
and I
night air, o I embrace you –
my back is
bloody with eternal
love –
in the closed garden
of night I await
the millions –