Relinquished it, went on, through his own roots, to the vast fountain where his little birth was already outlived. Loved his inward world, his inner wilderness, that first world within, on whose mute overthrow his heart stood, newly green.
Your being was so tenderly potent: his fate there stepped, tall and cloaked, behind the wardrobe, and his restless future, so easily delayed, fitted the folds of the curtain.Īnd he himself, as he lay there, relieved, dissolving a sweetness, of your gentle creation, under his sleepy eyelids, into the sleep he had tasted - : seemed protected.But inside: who could hinder, prevent, the primal flood inside him? Ah, there was little caution in the sleeper: sleeping, but dreaming, but fevered: what began there! How, new, fearful, he was tangled in ever-spreading tendrils of inner event: already twisted in patterns, in strangling growths, among prowling bestial forms. There wasn’t a single creaking you couldn’t explain with a smile, as if you had long known when the floor would do so. Not in the darkness, no, in your nearer being you placed the light, and it shone as if out of friendship. Oh where are the years when you simply repelled the surging void for him, with your slight form? You hid so much from him then: you made the suspect room harmless at night, from your heart filled with refuge mixed a more human space with his spaces of night. Did he ever begin himself, though? Mother you made his littleness: you were the one who began him: to you he was new, you hung the friendly world over new eyes, and defended him from what was strange. Of course he wants to, and does, escape: relieved, winning his way into your secret heart, and takes on, and begins himself. Call him.you can’t quite call him away from that dark companion. Do you truly think that your light entrance rocked him so, you who wander like winds at dawn? You terrified his heart, that’s so: but more ancient terrors plunged into him with the impetus of touching. Not for you, girl, feeling his presence, not for you, did his lips curve into a more fruitful expression. You, stars, is it not from you that the lover’s joy in the beloved’s face rises? Does he not gain his innermost insight, into her face’s purity, from the pure stars? It was not you, alas, not his mother that bent the arc of his brow into such expectation. Hear, how the night becomes thinned-out and hollow. O the dark storm-wind from his chest, out of the twisted conch. What does he know, himself, of that lord of desire, her young lover, whom she knows distantly, who often out of his solitariness, before the girl soothed him, often, as if she did not exist, held up, dripping, from what unknowable depths, his godhead, oh, rousing the night to endless uproar? O Neptune of the blood, O his trident of terrors. To sing the beloved is one thing, another, oh, that hidden guilty river-god of the blood.
0 kommentar(er)
