white hyacinth

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

I am rising

smell-mists from a

creeping night-flower –

violet fogs does not

exist by day,

wins no faith

in the transparency of the day’s

life –

therefore: come

not in towards

the spirit-lips of the smell-trumpet’s

whisper-mouth –

come not

near –


what for me

is the night’s holy


with living air

with a thousand languages

and no word

and a love so |

gory that you would

see stones and

no love –,

the holy garden of night

is for you

death, you

comical –

but as long

as the millions are anxious

and don’t whisper:

see, therefrom –,

therefrom, where the sight

is barred entrance –,

therefrom shall

the saviour-hyacinth slow-

ly sprout –

from the waves of soil

shall already

the root whisper:

all lives and

clothes are hatred –

as long as the people


death shall be

their only little

piece of jewelry –

and when nobody no longer

worries, first

then shall the shaped

colours of darkness roar,

and growth’s

surge shall banish

the coast of day – |

stalks shall rise

with a thousand

banner-leaves, with

lavish power,

with overwhelming

riches from

the steel-locked

garden of night,

and the seed shall

fall like a

foreign sun:




A New Life

for everyone, who

isn’t worried to

take a step –


the garden of night is

open –

the gates wait –

each leaf trembles:

Come Long Awaited

Love, All

Lives, And Merely Clothes Are

Hatred –, o come You,

whom I Always have

Loved and Always will

Love in cheering Eternity –

and I

night air, o I embrace you –

my back is

bloody with eternal

love –

in the closed garden

of night I await

the millions –