Why was life given to me
to rush past everybody in the chariot of triumph,
unachievable, fast as fate,
unconscious and without will,
in perpetual longing?
Why was life given to me
to, with hands decorated with rings,
to grasp the beaming bowl
I conjured up
in steady thirst?
Why was life given to me
to be passed like a magic book from hand to hand,
burning through all souls,
streaming like the fire over the ashes
in steady thirst?