I seek advice, like someone dangerously ill.
I want to flee before the doom.

I seek a kinship with grasses and with snow.
Perhaps I will yet come back as them.

But nothing helps me. I cry out. It hurts.

I fall upon the earth with longing and with joy.
In her I seek a likeness to myself

But she is great, and smells of eternity.

I feel the walls, I feel the table and the bench,
Nothing helps me. I am dangerously ill.
At night my doom is lurking after me.

It shames me to reveal this. I blush with shame
To write this poem, because I really do fear death.