I would have woken you to a nakedness like a naked spring evening,
when the stars overflow
and the Earth burns beneath melting snow.
I would have seen you just once
sink into the darkness of creative chaos,
would have seen your eyes like a wide-opened space,
ready to be filled,
would have seen your hands like blossoming flowers,
empty, new, awaiting.

You  leave, and nothing of this have I given you.
I never reached, where your soul lies bare.
You go, and you take nothing of me with you -
leaving me to my defeat.

I remember another farewell:
we were hurled from the crucible as one being,
and when we were parted, we no longer knew
what was I or you ...
But you - like a bowl of glass you have left my hand,
so complete as only a dead thing and so unchangeable,
with no memories other than light fingermarks
which are washed away in water.

I would have woken you to a formlessness like a
formless flickering flame,
which at last finds its living shape, its own ...
Defeat, oh defeat!