It is a huge curtain,

stretched at a distance around me.

Aimless gypsies crawl up and over the curtain.

They are my days.

They neither sing nor laugh

but hop over the top of my sadness.

Here and there one wears a gay shirt.

He is faster than the rest.

Even in my sleep with closed eyes

I cannot pierce this drapery.

Some day I will wind a child’s smile around my face

and thus disguised

Slip through the curtain and jump ...

Where?

Ah, yes, where?

Like crawling black monsters

the big clouds tap at my window,

their shooting liquid fingers slide

over the staring panes

and merge on the red wall.

Some of the fingers pull at the hinges

and whisper insistently: “Let us come in,

the cruel wind whips and drives us

till we are sore and in despair.”

But I cannot harbor the big crawling black clouds,

I cannot save them from the angry wind.

In a tiny crevice of my aching heart

there is a big storm brewing

and loud clamour and constant prayer

for the reflection of snow-capped mountains

on a distant lake.

Tires and dazed I sit on a bear skin

and timidly listen to the concert of storms.

The end of my wish

Walks near me smiling;

With subtle fingers I loosen

Little shining, sharp chips

From the crystal body

With its many enticing shadows.

A fine silk thread

Is desire,

These sweet but sharp edges

Its end.

Shall I add one more flaw

To my dream veil.

Before it was day

I climbed to meet the sun

half way

on the side of a mountain.

A high cool pond

poured down over rocks

to a slow dreamy valley

singing of new born clouds.

Facing the warm reflections

on the quiet sky

I bowed and kissed the dew

on the young grass.

But soon I felt guilty.

What had I done?

What is the dew

on young grass?

The end of my wish

Walks near me smiling;

With subtle fingers I loosen

Little shining, sharp chips

From the crystal body

With its many enticing shadows.

A fine silk thread

Is desire,

These sweet but sharp edges

Its end.

Shall I add one more flaw

To my dream veil.