I
Here, where the blood-stained
game track ends
the huntsman lies bound
and his dog eats snow,
a black dog,
my eyes have the power to see
crystals of the air.
II
Snow in the mouth
purifies
the word of love.
In the frost glimmer
eyes
of the sea-buckthorn.
There, as of
blue ore,
stars contain it,
is a taste
on the tongue–
scarcely affording
folly.
Ernst Meister (Germany, 1911 –1979)