I had to find a way
to stray the load of ancient days
in frustration and soul torture.
Does not sound well, right?
Clear, once it had begun quite well
what I held for great love.
My heart was quiet and there I still thought:
"It is quiet because it thinks,
as I myself can only think:
this is the man whom I can love for all time!"
However, he was quiet,
because he did not know at all like one speaks with a woman.
He was quiet because he meant not to be enough!
Self-confidence must die, if one only
on the advice of her
hears, one stops,
to believe in itself!
I had experienced this long enough,
if I myself wanted to be, feel only and love and before all things:
those forget for good,
the reason for this search was.
What I held sometime for love, that feeling looked destructive, I wanted to help, where no help deliberately!
Of course, how differently possibly:
I took down lines, many, too many.
Made me small in them, wanted never again to be thus!
"If you could so love me as him!"
Did I hear there some like envy out?
Envy on my past with another person?
Yes, the other was cleverer,
much older than I,
and pathetically in him,
what he thought.
I never got to know a man,
he was as well as:
only in himself disbelieving, turning over in the mind,
how he would win his darling,
that woman who never, nevertheless, wanted him!
Of course I wanted you,
the new never love like the old people,
you had no notion what you said there!
If one like I, even floated between life and death
then one hides such awkwardness,
not only before himself, also before the next friend,
is this not absolutely clear?
June in that other, longest forgotten year:
in me a much later human child grew up.
When it given birth,
if you were quiet again
and the silence continued.
It became to me too much to hear always only,
whom you always wanted to ask:
as if she should determine your life, still?!
Then you had operated in my life
and I soon never wished you met to be.
Wanted to read her such lines which you asked: "What does this have to do?!"
Yes, I wrote, since I was 13 years old.
The missive if in me only there raved any storm.
And I wrote if somebody died whose death proved no sense for me!
My lines concerned you so often nothing, as about you
if I wrote many days and it never read nicely.
Truth can hurt!
Wants to forget only to push aside,
anew recognise me how I could be
also forget never again to become like once:
small, too small!