What torments me with your freshness
And why do you ask how old I am, truly?
I carry in my soul such a heavy ailment,
That I feel like a yellowed skeleton.
A village boy, once upon a time,
I dreamed in smoke that one day
I’d be rich, renowned,
And gather love all around me.
Yes, I became rich—too much so.
The top hat I once had is gone;
From my shirt, only a chest is left,
And my shoes no longer even have soles.
And fame does not fall beneath me:
From Paris to Moscow, my name
Strikes fear into the barefoot,
Like a curse full of wrath and contempt.
Love? It makes me laugh!
You kiss me: I’m ice, you are ice.
My feeling, damn it, has withered,
While yours knows not how to bloom.
It is not yet the hour of grief for me,
And if it comes, it will not torment me!
More golden than your hair,
The river rumbles through the hills.
Ah, if only I could be in that rumble,
As once upon a time, and even today,
Like a lad, lose myself in play,
Dreaming idly in smoke.
Dreaming, but of something else,
Unknown to earth, unknown to grass,
That has no name you can call,
For the heart cannot voice it in words.
