With your name I can cure

pain after pain

and if I whisper it,

the wounds begin to heal.

But stay, ask me no more

about the burning purity that once was in my eyes :

a secret coming from you 

that now has been effaced.

Never since I left the cradle, o Mother,

have I found sleep again.

I was mad into a man

and the child in me grew old.

Of what you knew are left only some broken pieces,

but if you sing, the ancient child

will rise once more in the melody.

For in your voice there still civets

the swing of bygone time

around which years are thrown together

and all eternity is gathered.

Every time night falls onto the world,

dread also falls upon my breast

and a thousand cares possess me.

How I do fear for you

that you may go to sleep never to wake again,

when daylight breaks

from the pit of darkness.

Who knows towards what shores, what open sea

the boat of the dead takes you

in the deaf night.

You return, shortly before dawn.

Night is a hay steak

strewn all over your rumpled hair,

and fear has drawn around your eyes

the enigmas of strange tattoos.

If only I could run with you

towards some mountain speak,

or borrow a star

so we could flee the face of nothingness

and reach primeval eternity

on its most remote incline.

There would you live, forever sheltered,

between God’s blessing and my love.