Twelve Lines about the Burning Bush

What’s going to be the end for both of us—God?
Are you really going to let me die like this
and really not tell me the big secret?

Must I really become dust, gray dust, and ash, black ash,
while the secret, which is closer than my shirt, than my skin,
still remains secret, though it’s deeper in me than my own heart?

And was it really in vain that I hoped by day and waited by night? And will you, until the very last moment, remain godlike-cruel and hard?
Your face deaf like dumb stone, like cement, blind-stubborn?

Not for nothing is one of your thousand names—thorn you thorn in my spirit and flesh and bone,
piercing me — I can’t tear you out; burning me — I can’t stamp you out,
moment I can’t forget, eternity I can’t comprehend.