18 July 2011


Rough translation (my own) of 55.C:
You are so great that I already cease to be
if I merely place myself near you.
You are so dark; my little brightness
beside your fringe is insignificant.
Your will goes forth like a wave
and every day drowns in it.

Only my deep yearning juts forth up to your chin
and stands before you as the greatest of all angels:
a stranger, pale and yet unsaved,
and his wings make you delay.

He no longer wants the shoreless flight,
upon which the moons palely swam by,
and of the worlds he knows at last enough.
He wants, with his wings like flames,
to stand before your shadowed face
and means to see by their white glow
whether your gray brows damn him.