My heart is singing, singing, singing,
In it there is the blossoming,
Of course, I can not have excuse
In these so awful years.
The coffins are across my earth
And hunger, murrain, death—
But I feel, for some reason, glee
As if the sun is in me.
This feeling is my shame, it’s true,
But what can I do here?—
My heart against everything
Is singing, singing, singing.