Like The Scythe In The Ripened Field

I cling to the branches like snow in the valley during spring

Like a cold spray I drift in the wind

I fall wet into blooms as a drop

Around which they decay like around a bog

" Because I can't go quietly, I fly

Through every sky over sound buildings

Toppling pillars and punching holes in walls

Because I can‘t sleep at night

I warn others with the seas distant roars

I climb into the mouth of the waterfall

And from the mountains I release thundering boulders. "

I am the grown child of world fear

Who in peace and joy hangs

Like the strokes of the hour in the days progress

Like the scythe in the ripened field

I am the incessant-thinking-about-death