When will it end — this wandering, wandering, wandering. . .
Sorrow, it is not true that I know you
Sorrow, it is not true that I know you;
You are the nostalgia for a good life,
And the aloneness of the soul in shadow,
The sailing ship without wreck and without guide.
Like an abandoned dog who cannot find
A smell or track and roams
Along the roads, with no road, like
The child who in a night of the fair
Gets lost among the crowd,
And the air is dusty, and the candles
Fluttering, — astounded, his heart
Weighed down by music and by pain;
That’s how I am, drunk, sad by nature,
A mad and lunar guitarist, a poet,
And an ordinary man lost in dreams,
Searching constantly for God among the mists.