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I cling to the branches like snow in the valley during spring
like a cold spray I drift in the wind.

I fall wet into blooms as a drop,
around which they decay like around a bog.

"Because I can't go quietly, I fly
through every sky over sound buildings,
toppling pillars and punching holes in walls.
Because I can‘t sleep at night,
I warn others with the seas distant roars.
I climb into the mouth of the waterfall,
and from the mountains I release thundering boulders."

I am the grown child of world fear,
who in peace and joy hangs
like the strokes of the hour in the days progress,
like the scythe in the ripened field.

I am the incessant-thinking-about-death.

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