to our formless soul, and in letters of fire

declares it, and shines forth like a crocus,

lost in the middle of a dusty field.

Ah, the man who goes on confidently,

to others and to himself a friend,

unfazed by his own shadow which the Dog Star

stamps over a decrepit wall!

Do not demand from us the formula unfolding worlds before you,
rather a few crooked syllables - and dry like a twig.   
That alone today we can tell you,
who we are not, what we do not want.