I am always going from door to door,whether in rain or heat,and sometimes I will lay my right ear inthe palm of my right hand.
And as I speak my voice seems strange as ifit were alien to me,for I'm not certain whose voice is crying:mine or someone else's.
I cry for a pittance to sustain me.
The poets cry for more.
In the end I conceal my entire faceand cover both my eyes;there it lies in my hands with all its weightand looks as if at rest,so no one may think I had no place where-upon to lay my head.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming
