Like The Scythe In The Ripened Field

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