FULLMOON-FACADE

TELIHOLD-ARCULAT

 Who has ever seen a wolf-crying nightmare on a night of the pure white moon? In clouds of lamb's-coat-clad clouds, As a lurking assassin, with his death-torch-lights, Hiding with his yellow tiger-clawed lights. When the true pearls were frozen on the broken brooms of the trembling lashes, And on the walls of my room he frightened me with the cowering shadows of tigers. 

In the corners of crescent-edged mouths, something broken, Between lips still scorching with desire, The insidious squeaks of flickering south-egg fear, In soul-dug Kharübdis trenches, moon-filled bun-hills, That whimpered numbly at the motions of trembling fingers. 

Can he touch the deepening craters of the yellowing moons?! From all eternity, flashing with glaring mischievous lights, Densely-charged spaceships glide up and down The star-continents of cosmic nebulae. Who can truly know the moons? They guard, they attract, they chase, they repel... 

Thou southern moon, with otherworldly gleams. To reach your ears, too, my many-tormented, piteous lamentations: lately I am excluded or driven away with all intentions - and like Hoffman's shards of broken mirrors, the scalpel-cutting rays of moonlight show some people something else: they are broken or they are self-piecing. 

Now the conscious fear and throat-grating, insolent light-signs - in which to sleep, or rest, if seldom possible - my soul is already frayed by the hubris of terror! The half-consciousness that up above, in star-growing distances, the silver-plated moon, sneaking, sneaking, confessing my secrets, guards and detains me as a guilty one, peeping and watching me. And like a witless villain searches the weak spots of my vulnerable soul. Thou yellow cymbal!