We are in the perpetually damaged language   And will 
    remain there, so as not to become monsters   That's where
    the given is broken, and new form becomes possible
    I hear new birds   The song thrush sings
    at the break of day  Weak, weak light,
    the song perfectly clear   Now it's day, other birds
    From the neighbor's house up in the woods we hear hammer blows
    A car passes on the road   On television we see
    the political elite, their awkward dance   There are
    also other elites, more invisible  I do not want to
    belong to any of them  Because they are defined
    Also self-defined; in their regnant power
    Which is the opposite of the form of the elective, in love
    There is almost nothing without form   Form chooses us
    In the evening I gaze into the abyss of genetic technology
    How the groundwork for the human is literally pulled out from under us
    There, too, art is deep as an abyss  For we have no
    choice   The logic of this research can no longer be halted  Only
    deflected or diverted like an unusable    
    flue in a chimney  We will find ourselves amidst monstrous births
    Those who believe they can select life away
    donít know what theyíre talking about  The form of the abyss is so much
    deeper   The pain goes so much deeper  Hoi polloi kakoi, defined
    away as shit, in their immense numbers   So many, that
    not even the mapping of the human genome
    will go very far   In this immense combinatorics   In this  
    comparatively simple formís living, growing response to the world 
    in its experienced, its lived totality   Which is not totality
    For that cannot exist  Whosoever does violence to the unfinished
    does violence to infinity  One cannot do this without dying
    This is what death is, outer or inner  I look at
    the minute latticework in the wings of the blue damselfly  That which
    breaks the light   The shimmering richness   We find ourselves amidst radiant change
    We are not shit  We are the many  We bear luminous wounds 
    We bear the possibility of love; also its real sweetness   Its sound



    At night once more the moonís quiet, mystical light
    The moon is in the trees in the forest, no wind at all   No one sees it
    but me, from inside the sleeping house
    Now a light breeze moves stiff leaves in the heat
    What does human light have to do with me?  Have I
    turned away, esoteric; though this was never my choice
    I donít know   I cannot abjure inner sovereignty
    Which is also external   I taste blood
    in my mouth, on my lips  Who am I sacrificing?
    For whom shall I become an offering? Perhaps no one   Not even for that
    would I be of any use    But I shall touch you with life. . .

about Mozartís Third Brain and GŲran Sonnevi