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I shall not dwell in your abode,

I shall not eat what you shall eat

And we won’t share a bed.

Between four walls of clay and wet

I will not live and have not yet.

Between a window a door,

I have been sleeping, but no more.

To hide my being from the night

Between four walls and candle light,

I shall not do.

Under the cold, dark cover of your home

There is a hidden realm

There is a throne,

And upon it you stand alone

Surrounded by your fears.

Under the threshold where you dwell

There're only worms,

But I can’t tell

What I have seen.

Under the bed in which you lie,

Hide serpents that spit fire

By and by

And this is where you live.

There is no fresh breath of air

You dwell, in musty air, you dwell,

And you enjoy it such.

But I have had too much,

And this I shall not take.

For I am old, too old for this

And you, I fear, too young.

So I shall leave your house tonight,

Heading towards the woods with my gray hair,

Away from walls of wet and clay.

You wake up every morning and drink your tea.

You take the tea bag and place it in the garbage can.

You eat breakfast, you lock your house,

you descend some stairs and climb others.

You share the same space with other people you don’t care about,

but are forced to work with.

You eat some quick lunch. You scribble a few things on a paper.

You stare into a screen. You wish you were taller, fairer, skinnier,

more self-confident, less undecided.

You stare out the same window avoiding work.

You get your things. You leave. You look at your feet while you walk.

You look at other people you pass by.

You climb some stairs and descend others.

You get home. You put your coat on a hanger. You wash your hands.

You eat dinner. You stare into a screen again.

You read a few pages.You have trouble sleeping.

You wonder why you wasted time in high school.

You eventually fall asleep, only to wake up at 3 a.m. from a bad dream and go to bed again,

but it won’t be the same.

You wake up tired and beaten up.

You, one day, eventually, die.

J’ai te rencontré dans un matin, sur ma peau.

Tu étais là, caché entre mes doigts

comme une petite tache de naissance.

Ma petite Blaue Blume,

ton temps est arrivé,

je dois te tuer.

Comme ça, ta tige se sépare de ta corolle,

oh, non, non, non,

il y a un peu de sang,

tu pleures,

tu cries,

quel chant funèbre,

tu es condamné

à les puissances des ténèbres.

Je suis désolée, vraiment désolée, mais…

ça y est !

Tous les noms du monde sont écrits,

aujourd’hui,

dans mon livre.

J’ai éteint toutes les étoiles, j’ai démonté tous les bancs des parcs,

j’ai une mémoire du lièvre.

Il n’y a pas, à partir du maintenant, des tilleuls,

des promenades ou des doigts longs.

Blaue Blume, tu n’es pas comme le sang de Lady Macbeth,

ce pense-bête, 

tous les parfums d’Arabie adouciraient cette petite main.

Lave, lave, lave,

et tout est comme avant.

J’ai te rencontré dans un matin sur ma peau,

tu étais vraiment caché,

mais j’ai te trouvé, j’ai te tué et,

maintenant, sans une tache sur ma peau, j’ai créé un abysse.

Je suis d’entièrement une cicatrice.