Death of the Soul

As the nights pass, so pass the days,

The year itself passes.

Again I hear the rustling

of autumn leaves.

The light of the eyes is fading,

Memory is in the heart asleep.

Everything sleeps,

and I know not

If I live or am already dead.

For so, aimless

I wander in the world

No longer weep nor laugh.

Fate, where art thou?

There’s none of any sort!

Dost grudge me good fate,

Oh God,

Then send it bad, as bad.

Leave me not

to a walking sleep.

With heart like bears’

in wintry den,

Nor yet like rotten log

on earth to lie;

But give me to live, [[125]]

with the heart to live,

And love the people.

If you won’t

Let me curse them

and burn up the world.

Terrible it is to fall

into dungeons

Yet much worse—to sleep

And sleep and sleep

in freedom;

To slumber for an eternity

And leave not a footprint behind.

All alike—

whether one lives or dies.

Fate where art thou?

There’s none of any sort!

Dost grudge me good fate, Oh God,

Then give me bad, as bad.