A woman and landscape

I comb my hair this side and that,
from morning till night I comb my hair,
for the parting is not right,
for this stiff and long hair of mine
won't fall smoothly on one side of the other.
There's a mirror in my hand, but it doesn't show
my face.
The mirror doesn't give me my face.
When I raise it to eye level,
I see only a landscape,
only a mountain, water, plateau and horizon,
only black and red rivers crossing the plateaus,
only a landscape resting behind my shoulder.
I've changed places, I've sat against the airy void,
but when I raised the mirror to eye level,
there was only a landscape there.
Where could I go, I the hair-trimmer, I the mirror-holder;
wherever I went, the landscape followed
me in the mirror

Dreams throng about me.
Dreams open gates into me.
A landscape has risen against me,
a mountain roars. A voice cries to the mountain:
                                your hunchback is coming.
Thirst has cleft her anger into shreds,
it has cut her full anger into slivers.
This coming is a humiliation,
this clinging to the feet of the mountain
this bending down to drink
from the fountain that turns rivers black and red.

Waters rest on the breast, waters press the breast.
Waters open in vast expanses,
waters raise and cradle and carry.
Someone has feet, someone has clean feet,
some have not waddled through the shore's muddy sludge.

And birds burst open their wings,
their wings, black on top, white under, they burst open
flying to the horizon.
One alone, that tripterous one,
falls during the journey,
on the journey always falls dead.

And clouds travel across the landscape.
The shadows of clouds travel across the landscape.
Their shadows eat into my skin
dark, burning blotches,
on my eyes they fall and my eyes fill
with bitter, vast waters.
But those waters do not find their river beds.
Those waters stand still.
Those waters stand raging still
behind the dam of my eyelids.

But the clouds roll on,
the clouds snort,
the clouds get caught in the hair of the birch.
The birch has my hair, my long and wet hair.
Like a green stream my long hair
falls on the horizon's shoulders.

Then the landscape cringes.
Then its immobile curves
straighten, scurry against--
and like a plateau I open,
like a forest I rise,
I writhe like roads and fields.
Along rivers my blood rages,
it beats in the eyes of marshes and fountains,
for the landscape has assumed my shape,
the landscape has adjusted to my outlines.

With eyes open I lie,
without moving my pupils.
Silently I lie and stare
at the vanishing point of lines that pierce me.
The sickles of lightning cut scars on my hands.
The golden and blue oxen of the sky
trample my breast with their hooves,
sharp-edged leaves fall on my face.
There is no step, no step as light
that wouldn't leave a mark on me.
They light up for the ascent, they die for the descent,
but hot ashes fall onto me,
with every touch my skin cracks.
In my black mouth I swallow the sounds
meanly I hide them within me to keep
and from side to side the tapping rolls in me,
back and forth it dashes and sways
and a cry shoots up through my breast.
It stands black and frozen.
It pricks sharply the eye of the sky.
That cry is three spruces
in the middle of a convulsed plateau.

But like a forest I rise,
like a plateau I open,
I writhe like roads and fields.
I push up trees till they meet with heaven,
with the whisper of my trees I embrace the feet of the sky
I grow around my hips a thick and bouncing grass,
a thousand ravenous root mouths gorge my breasts.
My blood I give to the orchid,
hanging black trinkets on its ankles and wrists,
when it stands with its hardened stem, full of defiance
and desire
in the dusk along the roads.
My feet numb in the dew I give to the Parnassus grass,
as it lifts its black cross towards the moon.
From my finger tips I press
the hard shower of a sedge mound.

I lie with eyes open,
without moving my pupils.
Pierced by the lines I lie
and stare at the bottoms of the many-coloured boats
in the sky.
And when the green bark has slid by the red one,
when the furrow of the green bark
has melted into the red furrow,
all lines break up and make a circle
and with red tongues, panting, they chase each other.
Glow worms stand to make a circle.
Like a shiny ribbon they rise up and make a circle
along my outlines on the landscape.

In the morning I made a decision: now I'll break the mirror.
Rising to my full stature I threw it to my feet.
Rising to my full anger I cried across the landscape
I cried across all landscapes.
And from every mountain, water, plateau and horizon
I demanded me.
To every cardinal point I hurled my curses.

Did the mountain reveal its breast to the mirror,
did it grab the bottom of the waters?
Did it rip the veins from the back of the plateau's palm,
did it shake the horizon's shoulders?
The mirror lay at my feet in splinters.
From a chip a numb hand flashed;
a hand that rose, combing hair.