Often your eyes, instead of greening with spring, Are cold and strange. In sickly conversations your eyes look elsewhere, Looking only for a place to hide.

Often your eyes, instead of greening with spring, Are cold and strange. In sickly conversations your eyes look elsewhere, Looking only for a place to hide. Your arms — not crumbling like pastry, Not smelling of mint salve — And I in your arms, an insignificant dissonance, A rain of happiness, an arrow over an abyss. Whispering into your ear I will say that That I, I renounce this, That I, I renounce this. Those mornings like fever by your windows, like a beggar I sat behind the tree more than once. Those falling stars, drunken stars in a heap — At night when I am dying, Whispering into your ear I will say that That I, I renounce this, That I, I renounce this. I renounce because, I renounce because No one ever spoke so beautifully of being afraid of love, No one ever spoke so beautifully of being afraid of love As you.