I will not die until I’ve won!
My reverie is like a fever, on which I take the form of a sleeping man.
Down, then, to a stately castle, with golden walls and marble stairs; a bloody fool is dead,
whose eye is on gold.
There on the blood-soaked floor, I am white as a prophet’s sin ere I fear you.
Delicate, delicate is the white mist around my shoulder! And e’er I look up and glance the hot eye, there, a flame of flame.
One night I see in it a horrible shape, a monstrous giant, a pale horse of night that gallops on,
up, up it goes, in grim agitation, among the thick black walls.
‘What do you see, god?’
‘An enemy of the castle that is mine.
In God’s name, come to me!
I desire you.
From the grave and through the sky I go to him; there, where the beams run out
of light at noon, thou shalt be born! Thou shalt be born!
How loud are the shouts!
The sea is boiling!
Thou art born!
How painful is the birth, and how sweet is the nurse, who nurtures the maiden!
‘Thou shalt be born!
:: 07.11.2022 ::