Oh Mute Night, Oh Mute Mother

Driven by the darkness above all that is dark;
driven by human vanity,
and by resounding envy,
I once again return
to the glory of the poetry eternal.
I branch my verses into the sky;
I return to the earth with my verses
I am blessing my verses in tears.

Haunted by the scream of my own solitude,
I am calling out to the mute night
to hear its poet’s confession;
to hear the crystal tear
banging against the dry crust of Life.

I am calling out to the mute night:
“Be my mother, oh night, so mute!”
Sing loudly and proudly,
like you did that day
when I first called you mother;
Sing and bestow your kisses on me,
moist and silent,
warm and dreamy.
Take me into your tender and yearning embrace,
just like you hug the southern wind.

Now I sense your restlessness,
oh mute night,
oh mute mother.
In the maelstrom of my dreams you are looking
for a place to rest.
Do not worry,
oh mute night,
oh mute mother!
Your son shall sing instead of You!
I, the poet, the vagabond, the minstrel of Liberty,
I am calling You my mother,
because I could never gather the courage
to address my own mother like that.

Inside me, there might be something of Yours,
oh mute night,
oh mute mother!
There is a sad and endless loneliness,
there is a timid and trembling longing.
Inside me, there is something of You,
oh mute night,
oh mute mother.