Sailing west

Volcano sleeping
awakens, pitch dark ashes
sun bleeding dark blood

no stars listening
voices strangled in roaring
names dying on lips

haunted by his fear
not even in the last house
he finds his refuge

door of agony
enters in room of defeat
black burned rags moving

broken shards of glass
are light themselves in darkness
of soulless presence

light losing battle
last trees, no leaves left, protest
soon silenced forever

dark night closing in
red burning fist squeezes heart
scream smothered in pain

only grey ash remains
frozen grey waves touch the sky
endtime, dumb stillness

it must be day now
dark cannot stay closed longer
light piercing eyelids

only one birdsong
necessary for waking
earth in ecstasy.

Then I am alone with my words
and lay them to rest
Tell them little stories
so that they will not wake up
returning to their speaking

After consolation
for misunderstanding
my sweet word-children
roll themselves
in their blankets,
thumb in mouth,
sleeping for a while,
I am alone without them
catching some sleep at last.

Who puts his foot down again in the ashes?
Whose foot again and again and again ceaselessly?
Who is calling the Name again and again over the ash covered earth?
Who is repeating Namo Amida Bu again and again, ceaselessly?

When the black bird flies again
Touching the sky,
Carving its awful signs in the winds
The sleeping volcano
Awakes in a fountain of ash
The sun bleeds black blood in the darkness
The words dying on my lips
The songs of the stars dumb
My screaming smothered in
the roaring of the mountain
Then I know my time has come
Not going anywhere
Not staying at home
Still sleepless
A strange word as companion
That has to mean something
If not, losing all.

Not going anywhere
Not staying home
Sleepless in an animal shed
Mind racing
Torn apart by the Name
Splitting my life in time
No goodbye, no welcome of new life
A strange word as companion
That has to mean something
If not, losing all.

Silver shining moon
forest dark and sleeping
owl hunts soundlessly

Going to the barn
gathering woods, returning
warmth of glowing fire

And this one is inspired by Rilke's yugen.

Nightly hours

When the hours so near
as in your own heart strike
and everything with craving
voices asks:
Are you there?

Then I am not the one,
who in the morning wakes up lightly:
a name is given to me in the night,
that nobody I speak by day,
can call out lightly.

Every door
in me gives in…

And then I know, that it will never pass,
no gesture, no prayer
(therefore this things seem too immovable ) –
my whole childhood stands
always in me.
Never am I alone.
Many who lived before and strived,
wove,
wove,
wove my being.

And when I lay down
and whisper hoarse to you:
Me pain –
do you hear?

Who knows how and where
you will murmur with me.

My gaze is already upon the hill, the sunny one,
at the end of the path which I've only just begun.
We are taken, by that which we cannot grasp
at such great distance, yet so near—

and it changes us, even when we do not reach it,
into something, that, hardly sensing it, we already are;
a sign appears, echoing our own direction . . .
But what we sense is the falling winds.

Softly falling in love with life
Autumn foolishness
Moss over ruined stone
Like soft skin over the deadly scars
of my heart
Namo Amida Bu.