When I became decrepit and freeze,
Poet, accustomed to gray hair,
I wanted to push
the end, predestined elderly.
And again I, sick and frail,
I am lucky star.
Some image, especially cute,
I dream in senile delirium.
May be, memory failed,
But I do not believe this lie,
Nothing I do not wake up
And this captivating trembling.
All these tales of far away -
They captivated a young age,
But old age I bent shoulders,
And I find it funny, I'm a poet…
Tired I believe pitiful books
Such as pink fools!
curse dreams! curse MiGs
My prophetic verses!
Alone with himself
decrepit, soxnu, smothers anger,
I wrinkled hand
With the effort of rising cane…
who believe? Who put up?
doctors, poets and priests…
Brother, if I could I learn
Immortal vulgarity of the crowd!
4 June 1903. Bad Nauheim
