I cling to the branches like snow in the valley during spring
Like a cold spray I drift in the wind.
I fall wet into blooms as a drop,
Around which they decay like around a bog.
"Because I can't go quietly, I fly
Through every sky over sound buildings,
Toppling pillars and punching holes in walls.
Because I can't sleep at night,
I warn others with the seas distant roars.
I climb into the mouth of the waterfall,
And from the mountains I release thundering boulders."
I am the grown child of world fear,
Who in peace and joy hangs
Like the strokes of the hour in the days progress,
Like the scythe in the ripened field.
I am the incessant-thinking-about-death.