Composed At Braunau (April 20^th 1889)

Earth has not anything to show more fair,

all bloodied here beneath the twisted cross,

than this, my child, my angel of Braunau.

I take him in my arms and simply stare

upon this changeling left within my care.

His birth, today, is surely heaven’s loss

and touches all my greys with rainbow gloss.

The world lies sleeping, still so unaware

of such potential, dormant in this shell.

Maybe the thunder churning in the skies,

like a demonic monastery bell,

wakes him and, when I look into his eyes,

I see premonitory flames of hell

and hear the deaths that echo in his cries.