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Who's thinking of me? Maybe he's not human anymore, but he's an Angel. He holds some memory-conjuration from the expanding mists of present time's past, which float around me, fluttering and fluttering. Since there is no one I dared to believe in. I've been held captive by the snare of an assured fear.

A wounded unworthiness, in which the half-scared fright of an orphaned child lingers After his mother's lap, and seldom, when a caring fatherly mind Looks upon me, an uncommon smile Seems to flash across the corner of my mouth.

Somewhere shines, perhaps even for me, the spark-bright Peace-mosol that redeems and embraces me in persecuted nightmares. A gentle, intoxicating dream-vision passes, While it enfolds me in a gentle caress. When I end the silence within myself - fearful - , my trembling childish self dies with me. With pessimism this sneaking world approaches me. Soul-roots are growing in the crater-depths of my inner being.

I had better imprison and lock up for ever my apostate, alamusian tutti-mutiny! - The daily blows of fate are daily succeeding, And pursuers are pursuing me, they are treading on my heels: I see the sacrifice of true pearls on my Dearest's face; The echoing echoes of blood-red branches, of terrible layered silences, are like a Jericho symphony on the spikes of mountain-agastan!