The boy there, on the bagpipes playing,
The girl, who weaves herself a wreath,
Two forest paths that cross while straying,
The fire in the fields beneath -
I see it all. I witness it and stow
Deep in my heart, affectionately gentle.
There’s one thing only that I never know
And cannot even tenuously remember.
I do not ask for wisdom or for might.
Only a bit of fire’s warmth! I’m cold!
Winged or wingless, in the day or night,
The merry god won’t visit me at all.