in all phases of the nesting fold the tuft,
balled-up packages, dense, tight and mute
crouched in buds the press to fat
muddled centres in purple and/or white
back to back living flowers bent over
on planted stalks and bloom themselves round.
When it started to rain, in my huge hand
I held the heavy head at the stalk,
childhood drifted into the humid air,
sharp screams, wanting to have, pente-lured
to the slope. longing ways got on
and got off again. how i heard the whisper
of their many thousand blossoms, i wanted
to tousle the rain-wet rose, hit and flutter it,
wanted to pluck its blossoms, throw them around,
and crush them with my feet, calling friends, come and look
the fat big blossom thing, what i have here
cat's head round white and without eyes, i, i,
i want to drive the cat head, that is no cat
through the lunatic herd of my wish
made broken and handled, no uninjured,
I let the roses stand, great, motionless and still
in the middle of the way through which childhood flies.

Translation: Donald Berger