[Even deathly tired, the sun]

Even deathly tired, the sun
always finds the right position
to rise above the mountains.

Sharply, the olive wind splits
the foliage of alien trees.

At night, all-knowing luminous angels
pull the birdswarms ahead
between moon and waters.

Everything in Heaven, on Earth,
receives and obeys a wisdom
secretly conveyed.

Why not my heart, my brain and my sleep?
Why not my presumptuous tongue,
too short to say your name,
too long for silence.

Why does my heart not know out and not in,
why does my brain always think in circles?
Why does my sleep pass by yours
with the emperor-moths?

Why is the tongue too short and too long?
Bitterly it maims the sweetest name
and never climbs above sobbing's
lowest point to words of the heart.

- Christine Lavant