The Soul

The Soul

Undines, split the pure water.

Venus, sister of azure, stir up the clear wave.

Wandering Jews of Norway, tell me of snow;

old beloved exiles tell me of the sea.

Myself: No, no more of these pure drinks,

these water-flowers for glasses;

neither legends nor faces quench my thirst;

singer, your god-child is my thirst so mad,

a mouthless intimate hydra

which consumes and ravages.