It seems as though the voice of manWill never sound in this place,But only wind from age of stoneIs knocking on black gates.It seems to me that I aloneHave kept good health under this sky,Because of this, that first I soughtTo drink the deadly wine.Parting, Evening and slanting,Downward goes my way.Yesterday in love still,"Don't forget" you prayed.Now there's only shepherds'Cry, and glancing winds,And the worried cedarsStand by clear springs.

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

I have a lot of work to do today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again.

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love

As the future ripens in the past,so the past rots in the future --a terrible festival of dead leaves.

This cruel age has deflected me,like a river from this course.Strayed from its familiar shores,my changeling life has flowedinto a sister channel.How many spectacles I've missed:the curtain rising without me,and falling too. How many friendsI never had the chance to meet.

This way I prayed: "Slake the dumb thirstOf singing with a sweet libation!"But to the earthling of the earthThere can be no liberation.Like smoke from sacrifice, that it could notFly Strength- and Glory-ward -- alas -But only clouded at the feetAnd, as if praying, kissed the grass.Thus I, O Lord, before thee bow:Will reach the fire of the skyMy lashes that are closed for nowAnd muteness utter and divine?

In intimacy there exists a lineThat can't be crossed by passion or love's art --In awful silence lips melt into oneAnd out of love to pieces bursts the heart.And friendship here is impotent, and yearsOf happiness sublime in fire aglow,When soul is free and does not hearThe dulling of sweet passion, long and slow.Those who are striving toward it are in fever,But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers.Now you have understood, why foreverMy heart does not beat underneath your fingers.

I’m happy. But some beauty is nonesuch - The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that’s just a little skewed And that, for which, I won’t be waiting much.