How it makes one so strangely sad:
A walk through an unfamiliar city
That lies there sleeping in the quiet night
And has rooftops glinting with moonlight.
And above the turrets and gables
Travels the wonderful flight of clouds
As still and vast as a spirit
That, homeless, seeks a home.
You, however, suddenly overcome,
Give yourself over to the painful enchantment
And lay down the bundle from your hand,
And weep long and bitterly
Far from out of all the dark valleys
Comes the sweet call of the blackbird,
And, in mute agonies, my heat
Listens and trembles until daybreak.
For long, moonlit hours
My yearning keeps watch,
Suffers from secret wounds,
And bleeds to death into the night.
A violin in the gardens
Rises lament with a softly drawn bow,
And a deep becoming-weary
Comes over me like a redemption.
Unknown string player down there,
Who laments so softly and darkly,
Where did you find the song
That speaks my whole yearning?
Wonderous to wander through the mists!
Parted are bush and stone:
None to the other exists,
Each stands alone.
Many my friends are calling
Then, when I lived in the light;
Now that the flogs are falling,
None is in sight.
Truly, only the sages
Fathom the darkness to fall
Which, as silent as cages,
Separates all.
Strange to walk in the mists!
Life has to grow solitude
None for the other exists.
Each is alone.