body, Mary, was so lovely—
  Now I once again in vain look among days, animals,
  Rocks and sounds for a trace of you.
  Now I also know: I had to lose you…
  I did not find you—it was only your name—

Last Song

  Only come, my rain… fall against my face
  Yellow street lamps… overturn the houses—
  I don't want unbroken, smooth roads.
  Now it is lovely… only in the light of street lamps…
  Mary… surrounded with dark rain—
  This is the way it should be. I would like to be with you.
  What are mountains and the flat land to me—
  What are cities to me and colorful hypnotic nights—
  Back to the ocean… back to the starry shore.
  You are not entirely Mary, whom I sought.
  But you are also Mary—boundless…
  Beloved… a fool… cursed with longing…

Kuno's Nocturne

  Every day, when it gets so very dark
  That I can read no more,
  I walk along the street singing,
  Look at every girl…
  Whether perhaps—who knows—
  Today of all days a miracle will take place:
  That I shall come home redeemed,
  Peaceful and forever free…
  From such pursuits I come back
  To the house tired and confused,
  I know a secret remedy
  That can extinguish all suffering—

Going for a Walk

  Evening comes with moonshine and silky darkness.
  The roads become weary. The narrow world widens.
  Winds of opium move in and out of the field.
  I widen my eyes like silver wings.
  I feel as though my body were the whole earth.
  The city lights up: thousands of street lamps sway.
  Now the sky also piously enkindles its candlelight.
  … Huge above everything my human face wanders—

Ash Wednesday

  Yesterday I still went powdered and addicted
  Into the many-colored sounding world.
  Today everything has long since drowned.
  Here is a thing.
  There is a thing.
  Something seems like this.
  Something seems otherwise.
  How easily someone blows out
  The whole flowering earth.
  The sky is cold and blue.
  Or the moon is yellow and flat.
  A forest has many individual trees.
  There's nothing more to cry about.
  There's nothing more to scream about.
  Where am I—

The Son

  Mother, don't hold me,
  Mother, your caress hurts me,
  See through my face,
  How I glow and wane.
  Give the last kiss. Let me go.
  Send a prayer after me.
  That I broke your life,
  Mother, forgive me.

To Frida

(Dedicated to L.L.)

  Walls separate us.
  Strange spider webs.
  But I often fly, gaunt in my sinking
  Hand wringing room, a bleeding chirping twit.
  If only you were there.
  I am so murdered.
  Frida.

Lonely Watchman

  City and beloved are far behind.
  I am so betrayed and alone.
  Slowly I move from one
  Leg to the other.
  Around me strange doors screech.
  I reach for dagger and gun.
  Ah, if I were only at home
  With my mother.

Soldiers' Songs

1

  It's good and beautiful to be a soldier for a year.
  You live longer that way. And one is certainly pleased
  With each scrap of time that one snatches from death.
  This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city,
  Bloody from books, bodies, evenings,
  Inconsolably sad and filled with every sin,
  Three quarters destroyed already—can only,
  Standing at attention and marching on parade,
  Swinging arms and legs,
  Rust gently in a corner of the skull.
  Oh, the stink in a marching column.
  Oh, speed-marching across a lovely land in the spring.

2

  I must come one hour before the others,
  Because I have shot badly.
  I certainly won't be promoted.
  And I must do extra drills as punishment,
  Because, while the others, in accordance with orders,
  Looked steadily at the caps of those in front of them,
  As we were marching under the red sun
  Across the shining fields,
  I squinted carefully at the little pilot
  Who was humming above me like a bee
  In the glowing evening sky.

3

  I know, I know; this life is healthy.
  My rifle drill is hardly heard,
  But I cut my hand badly.
  Instead of the damned barracks yard
  I could now be in a meadow.
  In front of the assembled troops a man begins
  To cry bitterly.

4

  Sometimes I am afraid: a year is long,
  Endlessly long. And always legs swinging…
  The whole lovely day spent molding bodies
  And parade marching, and firing blanks.
  To have to forget the world… that in the evening
  One is still senseless, drinking beer, when one goes to sleep
  One still feels the heavy helmet on his forehead—
  And at night dreams of sergeants—

5

  Even when Sundays and evenings come,
  Completely empty and listless I move about,
  I am completely glassy-eyed, play with dogs for fun,
  Ah, or with little stones that I find,
  Weary, without a thought, drag myself through the streets.
  I often also stand around at my window,
  At loose ends; should I just hang out at the local bar
  With my dull comrades, kill my weary
  Miserable hours in flickering movie houses
  And, to pass the time of day
  Look for willing girls: or should I merely
  Go back and forth in my room.
  I, who ran through the nights like a fool,
  Shrieking to the sky, sought a thousand miracles.