DALED

DALED

Barefoot comes the night from frozen paths

toward me, the one condemned to death:

good it is for me to hang bound and watch

how my shoulders never tire of twitching

how my fingers never tire of singing

in the clasp of the stiffened knot-rings;

when I turn my eyes away from looking at myself

I turn them to the post forged to my back:

white it is, the post, and fragrant, in its cracks

such a waiting holiday lies hidden.

HEY

The second of the three rises and says:

— 'I don't possess such strength as my friend possesses;

if I cannot break the post like a splinter,

I can however loosen the braid of the knot,

so the rope shouldn't cut in to the bone,

and from your body no blood should go for nothing:

but anyway already, I see, blood shows through your garment —

so it's too late. I'll remain with my words.

And you — you open your blood-flow before time, —

the hangman will only come with the sun from the east.'

VAV

On the white post I cool my cheeks.

And I press still stronger to it my neck;

the cry of body and blood still lets itself be heard

from the strangeness somewhere through choked pipes.

The cry grows quieter with the coming of wonder:

blood flows out and separates from body apart,

blood spreads on the snow and is distanced —

body becomes upright with itself alone, purified:

over my shoulders, hips, loins, ribs

pours like a spring my holiday-smile from the lips — —