All day I think about it,
then at night I say it. Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing? I have no idea. My soul is from elsewhere, and I’m sure of that. And I intend to end up there. This drunkenness began in some other tavern. When I get back around to that
place, I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile I’m like a bird from another continent,
sitting in this aviary. The day is coming when I fly off. But who is it now in my
ear who hears my voice? Who says words with my mouth? Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? I cannot stop asking. I could test one sip of an answer. I could break out of this prison for drunks. I didn’t come here of my own accord and
I cannot live that way. Whoever brought me here will have to take me home. This poetry.
I never know what I’m going to say. I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it, I get very quiet. And rarely speak at all. We have a huge barrel of wine,
but no cups. That’s fine with us. Every morning we glow
and in the evening we glow again. (Background music)