Answer:
Explanation:
Nothing disturbs my being, but I am sad.
Something slow of shadow hits me,
Although almost behind this agony,
I have held the stars in my hand.
It must be the caress of the useless,
the endless sadness of being a poet,
to sing and sing, without breaking
the unparalleled tragedy of existence.
Being and not wanting to be... that is the motto,
the battle that exhausts all waiting,
meet, already the dying soul,
that in the miserable body there are still forces.
Forgive me, oh love, if I do not name you!
Outside of your song I am dry wing.
Death and I sleep together...
Singing to you just wakes me up.
