Blind man's lament

When I ask you, for whom life blooms,

o tell me, tell me how the field of poppies glows!

The red field of poppies - how it cheers and laughs:

dead is my path and eternal is my night.

Bad luck can often strikes a man hard;

one who bears a lot soon knows misery no longer.

He totters blindly through the sun-drenched meadows,

and gropes for traces that have been buried.

I dream of suns, stretching out my hand;

I would like to reach through the dark wall -

I would like to reach through the layer of shadows

into red poppies and streaming, golden light.

Since old times, a flicker still twitches,

in my dead eyes there remains a wakeful longing

and it knows the splendor of the light.

So entirely disinherited, I go through night and nothingness.

Whether joy or sorrow crosses my path,

dead is my curse, and dead is also my blessing.