– the antelope turns its large eyes out in the night
towards the rustling grass of the steppe,
which carefully rises behind the glossy black hooves –
– the eyes turn towards the grass,
where the wind and the moon teasingly build antelope-enemies,
and it flies
with the glossy black hooves pulled up under itself
over the steppe,
while the fear, like a spur has attached itself to its white tail –
– we will not, like the antelope,
listen to the play of the moon-grass with the wind of the steppe
and call the twilight an unconquerable enemy –
– no, like naked hunters
we will use the dark,
when we, on legs, trembling with withheld strength,
sneak over the grass of the steppe
which our feet press to the ground
with long soft steps –
our eyes
are not the large, open bird-eyes of the antelope
which, stifled with fear, dare not look behind –
– our eyes shall be small sharp cuts,
which hide
the treacherous game of the moon in the iris –
– our eyes shall be small and sharp
like knifes, to cut with in the dark and the prey –|
– we know the steppe
and we are not playful boys,
who carefree rock ahead in loose saddles
on small tripping horses –
– we know the steppe,
and we know our prey –
– we know, how we can force
our unbending muscles
that the antelope won’t hear our working pulses –
– we are men –
we know, why the temples pound themselves warm,
just before our long knives cut –
– we are men –
we know, that the moon, the night and the headwind
only exist,
like our knives,
to satisfy the burning hunger of day –
that the dew only falls,
to cool the hot blood of our women,
while our steps sneak across the steppe –
this we know,
for we are men with furry chests,
blue-shadowed muscles and sharp small eyes,
men with inaudible steps
and cold brains
and quick pulses –
– we do nothing, without knowing the reason,
and we are proud of it,
we are men –