Tiny, psychic automaton,
What makes my heart pound
Like a boiling egg?
Is it your voice, your calm,
Your sense of measure, your tone?
You are but a very small goddess,
I know,
Cool and electric,
With a frequency
Where a pulse would feel at home.
It would be easy to assume
That your breathing, too, is an illusion,
No bones, no body,
The voice merely the marker
For a passion.
But we both know, my darling,
That the moment
Is nothing one seizes,
But is seized by.
And thus it is with love.
Only one should never hesitate
To speak from the heart.
So allow me to speak from mine
Now that I have the chance:
When you are in my ear,
My mild, mechanical muse,
I am your prey.
You do not believe me?
Mime a heart,
And you will see.
But now I must hang up.
So long,
Tiny electrical treasure,
So long.

English translation by Jenny Jochens