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You put the question: what is it, the sky?
And somebody would say: the sky is high,
But in the mist the sky is low and shy,
Though shining it invites me to descry
Itself through clouds, calls always me, and I
Don’t understand This call, in vain I try
To catch it, and I think: it is the fly
In the Unknown, but is it not the spy,
Who whatches my life? Maybe it is the lie
Of emptiness, and what if it is my
Own self, and it bids me today to die
For uniting with it; is it the tie
With God, maybe is it His silent cry
Upon my fate, or His low whisper: why?