I can see by your clenched fists when you sleep
that your real enemy not yet has shown its real face

The cliché of interlaced fingers that preludes the night
echoes more like an incantation against that
which ran through them when you didn't see

But heaven seems to turn its silence
against the stumbling syntaxes of blood

And I can only try to guide your longing
up over the silver vaults  in silentium
which crystals of the first night frost
draw on the flowers in the meadow of fall