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602 - (sonnenbrücke) (1) He beckoned the sheep with his sweetest hand. He climbed the oak, restored the nest of a solemn little thing. (2) His pulse had the umbra of a mountain. His wounds produced in him no pain. At dawn he hauled the body of his father, his world spun in the axis of his heart. (3) He blamed the grass for the coming of the frost. His tears were beetles in a drowned world. The hours were lost. The hours were lost. The hours were frost in his grassy world. (4) Slowly, all of his skin was a blind skin. He dressed himself like a mossy boulder. The sheep environed him, his sweetness. The birds were disfigured, his sulk.
579 - () Ōdī et amō, I grabble the chains. Yesterday slipped from me, I gnaw. I belong. I hug the expressions of other. Other too am I. My nephew is afraid of the moon. I too, am other, and constitute a moonlike thing and gleam and disappear in the supreme violence of my sameness. I will hug you forever, tiny being, so that you too can disappear.
606 - () To you, Empedocles, woe was being orphaned by birth. The warm plumage of nature rejected the birthed one. Nature affiliated the inert things. The spacial sounds of veins, oh, the black air and black spume of a black sea. Day, a hungry apparatus and a tree with many mouths. Seaside, a magnificent symphony wets the bodies of flowers. I listen, I listen, how am I the orphan, Empedocles? Its bones gong and daylight shivers, the children will never know the frailty of their makers, and each footstep storms in a giant collapse. The sand ripens like a corpse. I watch, I watch, how are we the orphaned ones, Empedocles? Why do we seek a night that doesn’t seek us?