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