I always go from gate to gate,
soaked to the bone and all burned up;
All of a sudden I'll lay my right ear
in my right hand
Then my own voice sounds to me
as if I had never known it.
Then I don't know for sure,
who it is that's screaming
me or just somebody else.
I'm screaming about next to nothing, really.
Poets scream about more.
Finally, I close my face
with both eyes shut;
which looks as if it's in my hands
with its whole weight, and resting.
That's so that they don't think
I don't have a proper place,
to lay down my head.
~ Rainier Maria Rike, The Beggars Song, excerpt from The Voices, translated by Cliff Crego
