the song of the soul

Gustaf Munch-Petersen: Towards Jerusalem

I.

 

how I hate

the day –!

quiet –, without breaks

my fingers bruise out blood

from hatred, hatred

constantly –

and my eyes have

become blind coals

of hatred –

but see I can – always –

the day I hate,

the day –

 

 

 

II.

 

which strange

for all the world enforcing

necessary force I

must have been, since

I’ve been set

hopelessly in

the day of hunger –

hopelessly, I realize my hatred –

but see, see

I can – always –!

 

- - -

 

without me knowing

the slightest of it,

the people of hunger

must have been given

a column of goodness

through me –

aah ridiculous, says my hatred,

hopeless –?

but I realize:

necessary to give

this goodness here –

- - -

nobody knows, but

to see – always –

is the worst –

most glorious –

 

III.

 

why am I yelling,

I am yelling –

but where –?

there exists no ear

mightily to pluck

a whisper

wholly –,

loving to demand

a truth

pure as the foot of heaven

on the night of reality –

 

- - -

 

but complain –

never –

I have only to

chop and chop –,

until my heart

is free and hangs

like a black lantern

of balance in the middle

of the day –

- - -

how should

a mission be outspoken?

never in all eternity here –!

but after the last stroke of freedom,

I know, where I live,

I the seeing kid of the night –

aah I long, although

the day still

awaits my heart –,

against the naturalness,

against the abyss –

for see, I can –,

always – the night,

where I am born –!

 

 

 

IV.

 

what owns

a child of the night,

other than this certainty:

that no dream has

lied a word –,

that the smile of hunger

on the lips of day

are impurity –

and hunger the day’s

hole fulfillment –

 

 

 

V.

 

my mightiest dream is

the dream of the messenger –:

in clothes of blue and

with a white garland,

he shall come from

my homeland –:

clear and mute shall

he stand –, and

mute with my homeland’s certainty

I will lay myself

to him –

- - -

and he shall not have

any weapon with him,

because of the country,

he is from –,

and my laughter and my

tears shall stay with

my sacrifice in the day –:

there’s too much clarity,

where I am born –,

and its wall is way too

careless for

laughter-cheek

tear-tooth –

o, you clarity over

the wall of my homeland –!

 

 

 

VI.

 

o, if you could understand,

that true happiness

is eternal like the

laps of a wave and

the rain of the moon –

o, I aspire nothing

else than this same

in eternity there,

in my homeland,

where I have

given birth to my happiness –

 

- - -

 

fruit and yet more fruit

my beloved picks

out of my lap, and

gives me, yet before

I smile –

and when I whisper:

“this is too huge –

must I then die here,

where I am at home –“,

then a dream shall answer:

“you have dreamt so

strongly, that this exists

out of

your loyalty’s power –“

and another dream

shall bow and from

the night take, what

I don’t need to

aspire for –, and from the heavens

grab, what I always,

always have known, was

my most precious

my inner-most –

o night, my homeland –!

 

- - -

 

what can the child of night

win

during the day,

other than this certainty,

which is the way,

the only

leading to my homeland –

 

 

 

VII.

 

when the messenger comes,

and hatred falls from

my features like

the dry hunger of day –,

humans shall be blinded by

a beauty, blasting everything –

and they shall cover

their eyes and mumble:

“all perishes,

death is upon us –“

but their dreams shall

arise and bear witness:

that the homeland is

one sole sun-spreading fulfillment

of the highest –,

one night for all

of eternal clarity,

built on the immortal

shoulders of creation-dreams –

- - -

and through the grass of my homeland

it sighs

happy-heavy

under the foot of the slightest:

“holy night, where

the sun has found its bride –“

 

 

 

VIII.

 

I see:

my hatred was white as the day –

but my dreams shall be

the all –

- - -

o, what am I except

my mightiest dream –

and, what is the greatest and

the slightest except

their mightiest, most

careless dream –!

- - -

when the messenger comes,

I will breathe to his breast:

never, never have

I ceased to see this –!

and when I raise my eyes,

he shall open his mouth

and yet again mention me

in my homeland –