All day - like any day: comprised of little strain
         And many a trifling care.
They needlessly will flow in a chain
         Past your fatigued stare.

You're worried but deep inside submissive:
         No matter if you fail.
         And at the bottom of your soul, black and depressive,
         Sadness and unbelief prevail.

And then the tide of your day cares  
         By evening surges back.
When through the frosty dark the city glares
         And midnight's struck, - 

And you would gladly fall asleep, but - what an awful minute!
         All other thoughts aside - 
The joylessness of comfort, the senselessness of all pursuits will bring it  
         Into your troubled mind.

And silent anguish will so softly squeeze your throat: 
         Neither to groan, nor to gasp,
As if the night has put a curse on the whole world,
         The devil himself has caught you in his grasp!

You will jump up and run into the stone-deaf streets,
          But there is no one to help you out:
Wherever you would turn - only the darkness meets
          Your vacant eyes and follows you about.

There in draughts the wind is going to moan overhead
          Until the pale sunrise;
A police guard, in order not to fall asleep, will apprehend
          A vagrant by surprise...

And in the end the long wished for fatigue will come around,
          And you will not care a jot...
What? Conscience? Truth? Life? It's such a trifling count!
          It makes one laugh, well, does it not?