Was a window open? Is the storm in the house? 
Who is slamming the doors? 
Who goes through the rooms? – Let be. 
No matter who. Into the tower room he will not find his way. 
As behind a hundred doors is this great sleep 
two people have in common; 
as much in common as one mother or one death.

Is this the morning? What sun is rising? 
How big is the sun? 
Are those birds? Their voices are everywhere.
All is bright, but it is not day.
All is loud, but not with the voices of birds.
It is the timbers that shine. 
It is the windows that  ...  scream: Fire!
And with torn sleep in their faces they all throng through, 
half iron, half naked, from room to room, 
from wing to wing, and seek the stair.
And with broken breath horns stammer in the court:
Muster, muster!
 ... 

But the flag is not there.
Cries: Cornet!
Careering horses, prayers, shouts,
Curses: Cornet!
Iron on iron, signal, command;
Stillness: Cornet!
And once again: Cornet!
And away with the thundering cavalcade.
— — — — — — —
But the flag is not there.