And that heart no longer responds
To my voice, exulting and grieving.
Everything is over… And my song drifts
Into the empty night, where you no longer exist.
So many stones have been thrown at me
That I’m not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I’ll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun’s last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And form my hand a dove eats grains of wheat…
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse’s tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.
June 6, 1914