Bonjour Tristesse - Like The Scythe In The Ripened Field

I cling to the branches like snow in the valley during spring Like a cold spray I drift in the wind. I fall wet into blooms as a drop, Around which they decay like around a bog. "Because I can't go quietly, I fly Through every sky over sound buildings, Toppling pillars and punching holes in walls. Because I can‘t sleep at night, I warn others with the seas distant roars. I climb into the mouth of the waterfall, And from the mountains I release thundering boulders." I am the grown child of world fear, Who in peace and joy hangs Like the strokes of the hour in the days progress, Like the scythe in the ripened field. I am the incessant-thinking-about-death.