Frühling

The lark laments its song of hope,
that makes old pains forgotten.
I listen in tears to the sound of spring,
seeking love after a deep, cool night.

The crow's lament does not reach my ear,
I tore it from my lamenting conscience.
I murdered all shadows away,
that once dragged me into abysses.

I also buried the blood-rusty knife
well under the cherry tree,
and have slain the demon of revenge
in my dreams.

So that it may sleep warm in its roots,
like a dead child.
And not awaken an old harm,
with which I punish young love.

The cherry blossoms fall,
like white tears upon me.
As a sign that I may now be
awakened from sleep in a damp, cold grave.