Mountains: blackness, silence and snow.
The hunt descends red from the forest.
O, the mossy gazes of the deer.
The mother's silence; under black firs
Sleeping hands open
When the cold moon appears in ruins.
O, the birth of man. Nocturnally blue water
Murmers in the rocky ground;
Sighing, the fallen angel beholds his image,
A pale shape awakens in a stuffy room.
The ancient eyes of the stony woman gleam.
Woe, the screams of childbirth. With black wings
The night touches the boy's temple,
Snow that falls softly from a purple cloud.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt