From Hösthorn (1927)
Sub luna amo.
Dark is my bride,
burns in brown evenings,
dancing in moonlight,
smells like nightglow
under a corn lightning cloud,
cools like the morning dew,
gears as below and new.
Sub luna bibo.
Dark is my beer,
black malted barley its kernel,
the foam as moon glitter flour.
Thoughts and laughter
hover around the pitcher's round,
float like leather flaps,
float like gold leaf in the grove.
Sub luna canto.
Dark is my song,
sighs like waves in the reeds,
rolls as the firing progresses,
stands up defiantly,
sinks back heavy,
ebbs its time and flows,
old and painfully young.
Sub luna vivo.
Dark is my life,
small and common in destinies,
sorrows and pastimes.
Gladly I share
perishable lot of things,
happy to suffer and enjoy
the full measure of life on earth.
Sub luna morior.
Dark is my grave.
Give me to nameless peat
or to wind and sea:
rest in the mole,
or a cut dust,
fluttering like my desire
fluttered towards the moonlit ceiling.
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