SHOUTING

I vie with the Dead in shouting -
Who deader
deeper will burn?

Shout Shout
We, ugly truthlovers,
In love with death.
The dead loves with deadness.
In death all are blood-kin.

H-u-o-oh! H-u-o-oh!
Our fingers are horns,
Our height is wind
Running through the horns.
The Dead have strings in the hips
And the play and play.
There is more of a nightmare
Even than death.

In dream I evil-talk to my brother:
That mutes my beak.
With heavy feathers I strike him;
In sounds I myself am buried.

Wild is my throat,
No-one understands the howling.
Wildness haunts me like malicious gossip,
Malicious wind fallen from the stars.
It forges its wise basis
In clear foundations,
In pure hours,
In malquiescent dawn
Where ancient storm awaits.