Precocious loneliness of childhood,
sepulchral aimlessness in the void yawning,
oh, where are you?
The path had lead through bushy thickets.
Now I see fresh regions when turning:
you, blooming crops in fertile valley,
far away summits!
My knees carry my travel fever.
And I take the ancient child I was,
with me in a tiny coffin,
like an amulet.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath