morning hour

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

on the sky’s deep

bottom of night

lies like coal

all the love-sparks –

silently they

flew one by one,

black pearls on

the bottom of the sky –

- - -

I, the Chosen One,

is tonight merely

the sleep-guardian,

the death-sword

at The Great Love’s

door –

under the matt-golden

portal with

crossed legs

I sit awake

with the guardian-sword on

my knee –


- - - |


the seed of the sky runs through

all roofs –

behind the door, where the

great love sleeps,

I hear without listening

the great birds whisper

of odourless wondrous

flowers –

every fire is

death –, and

the white plains press

all wind to itself

in violent sleep –

the jackals hold their breath

staring towards the sky

with blind eyes –

nobody smiles –

no mirrors collect dew –


- - -

silky soft virgin-fogs

again slide over

whispering mouths and

dreamless laps

and between

the great love’s lips

string-lids are strung –


- - - |


nobody shall know

anybody after

this night –

and all features will

be melted,

when a morning comes –

- - -

when the violet boat

of the night flowers,

nobody shall be chosen,

and my queen shall

have lost her crown –