And children grow up with deep eyes,
That know of nothing, grow up and die,
And all humankinds go their ways.
And from the bitter fruits sweet one become
And fall down at night like dead birds
And lie for a few days and spoil.
And always the wind blows, and again and again
We hear and speak many words
And feel the joy and tiredness of our limbs.
And streets run through the grass, and places
Are here and there, full of torches, trees, ponds,
And threateningn ones, and deadly withered ones …
What are these built for? And resemble
Never each other? And are there countless many?
Why does laughter, crying and bleaching change?
What good are all this and these games to us,
That we are great and eternally lonely
And wandering never looking for any goals?
What good is it if you have seen so much like this?
And yet, the one who says “evening” says much,
A word from which deepness and sorrow flow
Like heavy honey from the hollow combs.
(H. v. Hofmannsthal)