They caw at dawn,
Alarming me horribly from my much-needed slumber,
Two crows impatiently taking turns screaming,
Crying at the seeds of day and nothingness.
What is it they demand?
And what makes them think I care so much?
Why do they want me to care?
Why do they demand it, and only now in my fragile state of paralysis?
Crows at dawn . . .
Why must it be?
What for the existence of these obnoxious, impertinent, relentless, horrid cries?
And at the worst time to hear them.
And so demanding!
They demand to be heard these old woman’s demons,
Harbingers and revelers of gloom and decay,
Squawking madly at this ungodly hour.
But why at dawn?
And so fervently?!
Why the greyer, wetter and gloomier it is, do they insist to add or cheer on?
Is this their natural joy?
Or do they only despise me so?
For I know . . . that if I were deaf, they would not crow.
So these two bastard-crows at dawn,
They wish so anxiously to be the ones to welcome me before my time into the day,
And for this, I cannot forgive them,
And for this, they are my sworn enemies,
Who so morbidly and viciously taunt me so.
They even compete with each other in this task!
But why?
Why must they so vigorously and ardently epitomize all that is awful, pale and dark in life—in existence,
All that is exasperatingly wretched and draining?
O how I loath them so!
My nausea! My bane!
And if they do not wish to destroy me in my anti-wakeful hour, perhaps they in fact wish to be me!
To take all there is of me so they no longer have to be themselves,
These lovers of not-life,
These embracers of all that is death.
And here, in case I am too conceited, I will, as open-hearted as I am, generously accept the possibility that it is their enthusiasm and sheer glee in the face of a pallid, dead, damp morning which has them benevolently and naively demand that I experience it as they do.
Perhaps they demand me to try with all my might with their passion,
Or perhaps they think I and all are like them already.
And so they shriek:
“Wake up! Wake up! Please, please wake up! Do not miss this splendid deathly sight of our glory! The glory of a day like this! The beauty! The smells! O how precious and sweet it all is! Hurry, hurry before the morbid sun comes up, and the horrid, bright blue sky. Before there is reason for the others to . . . dare we say it . . . sing! O how sickening, how grotesque, how monstrous, how awful it all will be! So hurry and rise now before it is too late! Come now, and join us, our unknowing, sleepy brother! For we cannot bear you missing all this! Our conscience would grieve us so, can’t you see that? You ignorant, sleepy, morbid fool. Wake up! Get up NOW! We ORDER you to get up!”
Thus they frantically and incorrigibly scream at such a daybreak,
And thus I cannot reach them.
For who could ever reach them, or even dare to try?
Who could ever save them, or us from their wicked cries?
The crows at dawn.
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