The height roars like a firing squad. Where have I looked, oh God?
The folks have to the forests gone. Your time has come, oh gnat! Come on!
Grow, nettles! Now it's time to spread! But I have slept like mad.
While sinking in the quivering stream of drowsiness, I had a dream.
To court I rode from my exile. That's not a lucky sign!
The path was empty, clean and clear, but from the bushes jumped a hare
and kicked me off my thoroughfare. Oh no! How could you, hare?
I tell my soul: wake up, old hag. "Deja, deja" - it answers back.
But what's the point, if it's been years since you saw stars, shed tears?
The voice is false, the feet askew, the teeth much less than thirty-two.
The years went likewise down the drain. Oh youth! Where is your trail?
To open windows wide and yell: it's spring, it's spring! Impossible!
The rope gets tighter round one's neck. That's it. Well, what the heck.
A friend of mine from days bygone, tight-lipped you are in lands beyond.
Why don't you call me once a day, so I don't fade away.
Call me to lie, to whisper "love", call any time - sleep's not my stuff.
For lies I won't be mad at you. I am a liar, too.
So don't believe the liar's tune. He never did howl at the moon.
He's apt to voice a languid phrase to frighten wives and maids.
But he is merry and robust, and, having ten deft stanzas cast,
is clowning by the window sill: it's spring! Impossible...