Here’s my translation of this poem and I hope it is a little closer to the meaning of it (but not necessarily a better translation overall)

Greetings from Berlin,
Georg

I

My hand has only one gesture left
with which it chases off;
aged stones are being dripped on
from damp rocks.

I only hear that tapping
and my heart keeps pace
with the drops going
and fading with it.

If they only dripped faster,
if only an animal came along.
somewhere it was brighter
but what do we know

II

Imagine, what is heaven now and wind,
air to your mouth and brightness to your eye,
would become stone all but around the small spot
where your heart and your hands are.

And what is now named morning(morrow) within you and then
and: thereinafter and next year and onward -
that would become sore in you and pus-filled
and festering and would never dawn.

And what was, that would be insane and
rage inside you, the dear mouth
that never laughed, foaming with laughter.

And what was god, would only be your watchdog
and would be cramming maliciously into the last hole
a filthy eye. And you would still live.