Poem

And what mean you by these surges,

picture, word or calculation,

what have you then, wherefrom these urges

of a quiet sad emotion?

It streams to you from out the void,

from single things, from potpourri,

thence take you ashes, with fire alloyed,

you strew and quell and ponder these.

You know, you cannot all things grasp,

set it round, the greeny fence

of this and that, you stay relaxed,

yet spellbound in unconfidence.

So day and night you’re on the make,

Sundays too you’re chiseling

and banging silver into shape,

then you leave it—it is: Being.

Gottfried Benn