She sits on my bed as the evening grows dimmer
And my soul does her will,
And in the twilight, dream-still
Like wispy filaments, a bright pupil
Narrows, her senses sleepy but limber.
And at the bedside on the linen thread
The spiked tendrils of narcissus
Crackle, her hands stretch across this
Pillow, where dreams bloom off of her kiss
As sweet fragrance off a white garden bed.
Smiling, the moon woman dives into cloud-waves in the distance
And my blanched and suffering psyche
Fortifies itself anew in its fight with resistance.
— Else Lasker-Schüler (1869-1945)
translated by Amelia Gorman