If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.

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

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.

You dreamt of me, I knew,And hence I couldn't sleep.The lantern flickered blueAnd there my path ran steep.[...]"This is a lake," you thought."There is an island here..."Just then, on the darkened road,A little blue light appeared.By wretched sunlight severed,You stirred and moaned in pain,And for the first time ever,You called me by my name.

Once taken by her, you glowedAnd you drank her poisons, content. Because all the stars seemed to grow,And fields had a different scent,Autumn fields.

Divine angel, who betrothed usSecretly on winter morn,From our sadness-free existenceDoes not take his darkened eyes.For this reason we love sky,And fresh wind, and air so thin,And the dark tree branchesBehind fence of iron.For this reason we love the strict,Many-watered, and dark city,And we love the parting,And brief meetings' hour.

I see capital through the flurryOn this Monday night twenty-first.Some do-nothing has made up the storyThat love exists on the earth.And from laziness or from boredomAll believed, and thus they live:Wait for meeting, fear the parting,And sing songs of love.But to others opens a secretAnd upon them descends a still.I by accident came upon thisAnd since then am as if I'm ill.

God is unkind to gardeners and reapers.Slanted rain coils and falls from up highAnd the wide raincoats catch water,That once had reflected the sky.In underwater realm are fields and meadowsAnd the free currents sing a lot,Plums rupture on bloated branchesAnd grass strands, lying down, rot.And through the dense and watery netI see your darling face,A quiet park, a round porchAnd a Chinese arbour-place.

Instead of wisdom -- experience, bare,That does not slake thirst, is not wet.Youth's gone -- like a Sunday prayer.Is it mine to forget?On how many desert roads have searched IWith him who wasn't dear for me,How many bows gave in church IFor him, who had well loved me.I've become more oblivious than inviting,Quietly years swim.Lips unkissed, eyes unsmiling --Nothing will give me back him.