Now the hour bends down and touches mewith its clear, metallic ring:my senses tremble. The feeling forms: I can-and I grasp the malleable day.
You pronounced live strongly and die softlyand ceaselessly repeated: Be.But before the first death murder came.With that a rent tore through your perfect circlesand a scream broke inand scattered all those voicesthat had just then come togetherto sing you,to carry you about,their bridge over all abysses-
And what they have been stammering sinceare fragmentsof your ancient name.
God talks to each of us as he creates us,then walks us silently out of night.But the words, spoken to us before we start,these cloudy words, are these:
Sent forth by your senses,go to the very edge of your desire;invest me.
Back behind the things grow as fire,so that their shadows, lengthened,will always and completely cover me.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.Only press on: no feeling is final.Don’t let yourself be cut off from me.Nearby is that countryknown as Life.
You will recognize itby its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
O Lord, give us each our own death. Grant usthe dying that comes forth from that life in whichwe knew love, grappled with meaning, felt need.