(Johannes R. Becher 1891-1958)

With the rest of strength it raised and stayed
Sticking out from snow, a clenched hand
Only it is visible. A hand without flesh threatens
It throws a curse, it is protrudes, and remembers


It lasts obstinately, pushed with the rest of strength
And you would say, looking at the clenched hand,
That the dead fingers caught something in the air
And closed, to hold it tight


When stiffness leaves from sprig
The palm will open and show its inside
And or new seed will fall on the ground.

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