Du, Nachbar Gott, wenn ich dich manchesmal
in langer Nacht mit hartem Klopfen störe,
so ists, weil ich dich selten atmen höre
und weiβ : Du bist allein im Saal.
Und wenn du etwas brauchst, ist keiner da,
um deinem Tasten ein Trank zu reichen:
Ich horche immer. Gieb ein kleines Zeichen.
Ich bin ganz nah.
Nur eine schmale Wand ist zwischen uns,
durch Zufall; den es könnte sein:
ein Rufen deines oder meines Munds –
Und sie bricht ein
ganz ohne Lärm und Laut.
Aus deinen Bildern ist sie aufgebaut.
Und deine Bildern stehn vor dir wie Namen.
Und wenn einmal das Licht in mir entbrennt,
mit welchem meine Tiefe dich erkennt,
vergeudet sichs als Glanz auf ihren Rahmen.
Und meine Sinne, welche schnell erlahmen,
sind ohne Heimat und von dir getrennt.
To God, in 4A next door—when I sometimes
bother You in the long night by banging on the wall,
well: it’s because I so seldom hear You breathing, you know?
I know: You’re alone in that grand hall.
And if You need something, well, there’s no one, is there,
not even someone to bring You something to drink.
But I’m always listening! Give me a small sign.
I’m just next door.
Only a thin wall stands between us,
and the slightest chance—
a call from Your mouth or mine—would bring it down,
entirely, without noise or sound.
But it’s a wall made of Your images.
And these images stand before You as Your names do,
and on the occasion that the light in me kindles,
that light by which my soul knows You,
then that light glances off their frames like a glare—
And thus my soul, which is waning quickly,
Is homeless, and sundered from You.
4B’s at it again, oh God—are you fucking listening?
Tell 4B to stop banging at the walls, it’s been a long night.
The seltzer and the gin and the whores
and the men haven’t helped:
I’m alone in this room and its walls are so white.
This blindly-branched night makes me think
of the taste of my father’s brandy. He drank and
retched and was wretched and I heard him always.
I was very close to him then, you see.
And it was a shitty flat we stayed in then too:
only a thin wall between the grown man puking
and the little child drawing pictures with no frames.
Other children dreamt of fairies with wands. I
dreamt of falling and dark mounds in long rows at twilight—
his or mine. I imagined ambulance alarms shrieking
but they were always only nearly there.
Those were the works You built, I guess.
And such works are monuments to Your name,
and they shine but they’ve bruised me with their light,
waking me at 4 a.m. to scream at the crazy in 4B
who is probably also screaming for You. I’m spent.
I’m living off cigarettes and vodka and ramen.
Still, though: I’ve been running for a long time
but now I live here. Hey. Hey, God: you hear me? I live here.
The source poem is Rainer Maria Rilke's “Du, Nachbar Gott.” Of the two translations, “Hey God:” is faithful and “False Friends” is faithless.