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 a wind
Running through the horns.
The Dead have strings in their hips
And they play and play.

In dream I evil-talk to my brother:
This mutes my beak.
I strike him with heavy feathers,
In sounds I myself am buried.

Wild is my throat,
No one understands 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 an ancient storm awaits.