I know you cry for her,
you’re sick with love,
and can’t find the kiss,
neither as pure nor as sweet
as the one she gave you.
I know you’re killing yourself,
your heart like a fool.
I know, because I’ve lived it,
and nailed in my own flesh,
I carry your same pain.
Get up! Why are you grieving?
Get up! Sing and live!
Come on! The world is a cart
pulled by fools
who want it that way!
Come on! Don’t you see she’s laughing?
This century’s not for tears!
Go on! Have another whiskey!
After all, the scythe
will ring us out!
I know from your room
you want to banish her,
but in every little corner
floats some memory of hers
and enters your soul again.
I know because of these ills
I also suffer with you…
But it’s better to keep silent,
because instead of consoling us,
we’ll both end up crying.