In my window, evening graying,
I am sitting without moving,
Doing nothing, being idle,
Minutes flying, my time floating.
Watching dusty, stunted branches,
Saddened flowers, petals grieving,
Watching them in silence, coldly,
What’s their fate to me, the lonely!
My soul is bare, cold and empty
And the minutes are still racing,
Then, while watching the pale nightfall
I will have to leave my window…
With compassion Death speaks to me:
“Your heart trouble, leave it to me,
My frigid hands will caress it,
Put it to rest very gently.”
Then in terror I scream wildly:
I don’t want to become happy,
All I want is my life to live!
Why? what a foolish, sad secret!
1906
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
