Text of the Poem
A stone from the depths that has witnessed the seas drying up and a million white fish leaping in agony, I, poor man, see a multitude of white-bellied nations without freedom. I see the crab feeding on their flesh. I have seen the fall of States and the perdition of tribes, (5) the flight of kings and emperors, the power of tyrants. I can say now, in this hour, that I—am, while everything expires, that it is better to be a live dog than a dead lion, as the Scripture says. (10) A poor man, sitting on a cold chair, pressing my eyelids, I sigh and think of a starry sky, of non-Euclidean space, of amoebas and their pseudopodia, of tall mounds of termites. When walking, I am asleep, when sleeping, I dream reality, (15) pursued and covered with sweat, I run. on city squares lifted up by the glaring dawn, beneath marble remnants of blasted-down gates, I deal in vodka and gold. And yet so often I was near, (20) I reached into the heart of metal, the soul of earth, of fire, of water. And the unknown unveiled its face as a night reveals itself, serene, mirrored by tide. Lustrous copper-leaved gardens greeted me that disappear as soon as you touch them. (25) And so near, just outside the window—the greenhouse of the worlds where a tiny beetle and a spider are equal to planets, where a wandering atom flares up like Saturn, and, close by, harvesters drink from a cold jug in scorching summer. (30) This I wanted and nothing more. In my later years like old Goethe to stand before the face of the earth, and recognize it and reconcile it with my work built up, a forest citadel on a river of shifting lights and brief shadows. (35) This I wanted and nothing more. So who is guilty? Who deprived me of my youth and my ripe years, who seasoned my best years with horror? Who, who ever is to blame, who, O God? (40) And I can think only about the starry sky, about the tall mounds of termites.