«I do not regret, complain, or weep, / All passes, like smoke off the white apple trees. / Autumn’s gold has me in its withering grip. / I shall never be young again. My heart has felt the chill, / It no longer beats as it once did. / The birch woods cotton print / No more tempts me to...»
«From the start, each living thing’s / Got its own mark upon it. / I’d have been a thief and a cheat / If I’d not turned out a poet. Scrawny and undersized, / Always the hero of the gang, / I’d often come back home / With my nose bashed in. And when my scared mother saw me, / ...»
«Only one final trick remains — / To stick my fingers in my mouth, / And whistle! Now my evil name — / Foul-mouthed brawler—has got about. Ah, how farcical this waste was! / Farcical waste in life’s not new. / Ashamed I once believed in God, / I’m bitter I no longer do. Ah, yo...»
«Years of my youth, years of dissipation, / I poisoned you myself with a deadly poison. I do not know if death is close at hand or far. / My eyes which once were blue no longer are. Where are you, happiness? I weep, I cringe, all’s dark. / You’re nowhere to be found. Outside or in the bar...»