And things are left with no traces—
Be it a dream confusion in a cold forgetful night,
Sneaking and trespassing on an ancient boyish fright,
Or an old man mourning the pride
Of a brightly hidden straightforward sight?
You don’t know! Perhaps you taught yourself how to know—
To walk asleep like all these men and women…
While your eyes are still wide open. But...,
Still you don’t know how they pass away,
How they live the night and sleep the day
When— from height to height they heavily bounce on each other,
You— from low to low sound no bother.
But..., who are you? Who am I talking to?
I think I am losing control over you
I feel like losing control over you…
Over the whole world and over myself, too;
And I don’t feel or dare any more.
Perhaps— the only thing I still care about is your eyes.
Are they closed? Maybe open?
Probably, both of your eyes are watchfully open.
But… What if there is only one eye open?
Would it be the right one or- the next?
And… What if both of your eyes are not open… closed?
How would they be- your colourless life and tree?
My mind is telling me that my eyes are open—
The two of them are widely open and free..., though
My heart’s palpitating corpse is whirling into my deafen’d ears its stormy wind,
Bleeding all silence and healing all fiend,
That my eyes have always been open— carefully open,
Yet in my pink-painted dreams.