Number 9

When will it be? When, that I step in through your door and fall against you the way your own hair falls? So that with kisses I may plunder the sweetness of your lips and the honey of your mouth. Ah, my heart has become tangled in your hair, bound to a single strand, like the belt around your waist. The ringlets of your hair have fallen into chaos, coiled and knotted one inside another. This burnt heart of mine, heap upon heap of ash, is worth nothing in your sight. I would pull my heart free from your hair, if only I had the strength to reach your head. Tears from my eyes, blood from my face, pour down at your door every moment, so they might shape a rose from its dust. If you would only let go of my life, I would give you, from a pure heart, a heart without fear.