Perhaps we have slept our way through life
drifted like a sleepwalker from one love to the next
mumbled ourselves into the sovereign power of language
dreamt ourselves to the rim of realities
glided out of the day-cycle, out of the decade.

Perhaps we will awake on the threshold of death with azure eyes
with the gold wafers of all the summers in our mouths
willingly return ourselves as a gift to the earth
yes, now we know for sure: the future will get us
the dumb sheep and the warmth-loving cicadas will bear witness to it and
from the highest point of the place of sacrifice
the blackbird, with not a trace of sin,
will sing and sing.

English Translation by John Irons