Onanism and occultism,
the glass moving in the room,
I lie down with my brain softened by candlelight,
the path of the moon behind the pane,
silver flakes are falling from
the lap of old Sisyphus,
sticking on the window.
I conjure up the Grand Master, tzsche.
Outside, silence moves as it pleases,
silver glittering in the fur of the animals.