I dreamed: when I came over the heath
in the setting sun: my cold hand
had snatched a bird's warm egg. - O my Love.

You live alone. The house stands remote
in the wind that blows over the lowland;
when I come to you no one knows.
Two stone lions, heavy and solemn,
watch the steps as an Egyptian tomb.
Weeds hard as steel moved the threshold
and the age-old freestone lies broken.
Sometimes you sigh sadly, as we go down the stairs:
"Alas, you were never touched by me deeply;
you don't take any pains." Softly you begin to weep.
Your hand starts stroking the dew-laden statue
and I throw myself onto the wild grass.
- My Love, I cry strangely: the slate lies loose
on the roof, close to the window:
underneath, you think of me in sorrow,
when it rains and drops of water
sing on the bed's balls of copper.

It's dark. In his house we are two bees
in a beehive: sweetness on all sides
and our buzz enlarges our eyes and words
come slowly. In front of your feet watches
your dog. With its drooping ears the animal
lies calmly, licking its broad legs.
In your loving might, overwhelmed with dallying,
I sink as in a bath of lukewarm milk,
and feel the heavy beat of your heart. We keep
our secrets from each other, and the pain is sweet,
because we, very lonely being so close,
torture one another with naive agony.

You took my pipe out of my mouth
and put it beside the stuffed squirrel.
Then you hide your face in my neck
and breathe heavily, until you fall, weak
into my arms. Moving you deeply, my lips
come to taste your happy pain.
You are a little tree that is pruned deep inside
and dazzles, my love. Then, wearied, we sink.

Later we'll caress blue rabbits in the stable.
A freshly honed chisel reflects on the hay
and an ax stands stiff in a beam.
A lizard scuffles on the roof.
You turn off the lamp. Slowly moving outside
we stand beneath the foliage and listen
to the distance where a moon glisten flows.
And you become beautiful and good to me, alas,
this night. We walk on the damp sod
and stammer. The smell of wheat floats
all around and freshly broken pine.
But your fingers are like moss, narrow and cold,
and I whistle through them sweetly, until
they are magic at my lips, foreverish,
bedarkened with the melancholy of my mouth
- love, how long are we amazed before each other?

I leave you across a ditch running dry
with a rotting old shoe and some rust
as the tragic remains of durable iron.
Thus, we find proof for our hearts each time:
both beauty and strength must perish,
and we come upon the end as we fall.
So God lets us play lovingly on occasion
with all the daisies of our lives.

Translated by Marian de Vooght