Behind the Wall

I hang from the branches as snow
into the spring of the valley,
as a cold spring I drift in the wind,
wet I fall into the blossoms
as a drop
for which they rot
like a swamp.
I am the always thinking about dying.

I fly because I can't walk calmly
through all heaven safe buildings
and knock down pillars and hollow out walls.
I warn cause I can't sleep at night
the others with the distant rustling of the sea.
I climb into the mouth of the falls,
and from the mountains I loose rumbling debris.

I am the child of the great fear of the world
hanging in the peace and joy
like chimes in the day's pace
and like the scythe in the ripe field.

I am the always dying thinking.