My God, I am crying over the being I live;

it grieves me to have taken your bread;

but this poor thinking clay

is no scab fermented in your side:

you do not have Marys who leave you!

My God, had you been a man,

today you would know how to be God;

but you, who were always fine,

feel nothing for your own creation.

Indeed, man suffers you; God is he!

Today there are candles in my sorcerer eyes,

as in those of a condemned man—

my God, you will light all of your candles

and we will play with the old die …

Perhaps, oh gambler, throwing for the fate of

the whole universe,

Death’s dark-circled eyes will come up,

like two funereal snake eyes of mud.

My God, and this deaf, gloomy night,

you will not be able to gamble, for the Earth

is a worn die now rounded from

rolling at random,

it cannot stop but in a hollow,

the hollow of an immense tomb.