Who intoxicated the fingers and made them write the line "In me the strength of those who finished living is sown!" My dove, you gave me a sheet of paper - a mirror. The dazzling words of mine your wings spread over me.
Crickets, like shoemakers, hammer their blades of grass into my forehead. Tears on my cheeks from the meadow that's coming down into my attic. Slaughtered, the hens are now calling out, honoring mourning. Melted snows pour their spirit into my ear, ignited.
A sudden kiss on my lips. Who and where am I? Finally The locks all unlock themselves. Muteness is cut by a knife. Pearls, pearls, and pearls, with secret rushes of sea Raining from my lips now. A pearly terror attacks me.
Sounds trapped on the lips, like pearls of forts oceanate are mute for thousands of years, and over the muteness - a blade. "Dove darling, childhood's child, let the lips speak, give them speech Become now the cry of the sounds, or else the dream is extinct..."