THE THIRD WOUND

Early, right before the day notices me again

comes the first wound driven from the earth

and speaks coldly, in chilled, lightbroken waters:

 

I am wind extinguished light,

dearest sorrowfriend you have met,

those left traces in the marsch

 

The second wound, around self-defence cast,

overnourished this Universe hopeless coldstricken embrace

and have soon used up all my vunerability,

reached in to Time and awake constantly bent:

 

Sorrow have played too long on its own board

with Life laid up as being a fickled nothing

(Hidden events fully rooted in advance

handing here Fate itself as fully written)

 

Final peel of pity scraped down

A cold grip soon to been turned right

 

 

There, over hushed dusk

and trembling candle flickering

risen as a shimmering: Clarity;

Home to the last wound

THE LAST WOUND

THE LAST WOUND

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