From horrible, hidden, heavenly wrath,
from soil that heaves and opens;
directed simply by an absent truth
he doesn’t suddenly come. He is – here:
under the moss entered the first bud
the first pale petal of a rose;
it is what started to thud:
in the soul is a soul of ardor and dread.
Of such a silent wind you will be the prey,
of such a meek gale without a clear goal
(when even the night is clearest day)
forced by a dark thirst, a bloody beam:
all who you loved, you, he took it all,
and now, simply, he says: “here I am again!”