In the beginning life was good to me;

it held me warm and gave me courage.

That this is granted all while in their youth,

how could I then have known of this.

I never knew what living was—.

But suddenly it was just year on year,

no more good, no more new, no more wonderful.

Life had been torn in two right down the middle.

That was not his fault nor mine

since both of us had nothing but patience;

but death has none.

I saw him coming (how rotten he looked),

and I watched him as he took and took:

and nothing was mine.

What, then, belonged to me; was mine, my own?

Was not even this utter wretchedness

on loan to me by fate?

Fate does not only claim your happiness,

it also wants your pain back and your tears

and buys the ruin as something useless, old.

Fate was present and acquired for a nothing

every expression my face is capable of,

even to the way I walk.

The daily diminishing of me went on

and after I was emptied fate gave me up

and left me standing there, abandoned.