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You have born in the lap of privation,

Your childhood was useless strife,

Today you dance, your eyes full of tears,

To the tuneless violin of life.


Your implacable stepmother, Night,

Is an evil creature of evil fame;

She tore the narcissus from your breast,

And dragged you down the path of shame.


You celebrate the festival of sin

Beneath the street-lamp's dusky light;

No one can hear the pain in your laugh

When you laugh in the quiet night.


Drunk with illusions and deceptive hope,

With a withered hyacinth on your breast,

You return to your dingy little room to dine

With hunger, your one and only guest.


There hangs on the wall the photo of a child

With pretty and innocent face;

The wistful look it has is now the only trace

Which suffering has not effaced.


The days and nights drag on unchanged

When ugly and relentless Death

Arrives in the chilly autumn of your life

To wring from you your final breath.


It will discover with a shock,

That powerful Life has got ahead,

Leaving nothing to destructive Death,

That you have long been dead




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