All day I think about it, then at night I say it. –

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing? –

I have no idea. –

My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that, –

And I intend to end up there. –

This drunkenness began in some other tavern. –

When I get back around to that place, –

I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile, –

I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary. –

The day is coming when I fly off,

But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes?What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.

That’s fine with us. Every morning

We glow and in the evening we glow again.