If the world is fluid and changing
and could be poured in the cup,
if it is a storm, intangible and raging
and too blurry in a blow-up,
if the world reigns o’er me,
if it hits me with the raindrops
making me at last clearly see
that I am just a fool who hops,
if it wants me to stop faking it,
while I am simply tired of making it,
if I can’t overcome this stone
buried deep inside of me,
how can I make it all alone
when I have neither lock nor a key?

I feel like a grasshopper
hop-hop-hopping on a spring grass mop,
I feel like a new-born mouse
squeal-squeal-squealing when the door squeaks,
I feel like a yearning demented clown
who can joke, put on a show and howl.

Darkling, darkling, be my friend
let me look inside myself before the end
in this unexplored, endless wasteland
let me get to know who I truly am.