I would like to know why I am still around,
when no one here has any use of me.
I am rolling about like a worm in dust
without any future, homeland or spring.
I miss intensely the universalism,
if existed, I could be back on my feet.
I am guilty, I have worked very hard
on completely ruining my own paradise,
for I was too conceited, being a fool,
anything, I thought, I'd be able to do.
(Or rather, I thought, would I explode like a bomb?)
I don't know, I don't know... Pure reason?
Eats away at reality just like mould:
this much has it amounted to - pure reason.
And disgusted, had enough of ourselves:
our body is finished, above it floats the spirit.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath