Along the precipice, above the chasm, on the very brink, I lash and drive my horses with a whip, drive them with my singing. Too little air somehow - I swallow the wind and the fog I drink. I sense with fatal rapture - I am vanishing, I am dying. A little bit slower, horses, a little more slowly! You donít listen to my taut sharp whip! The horses theyíve given me this time arc all so unruly. And Iím not through living, not through singing this trip. Iíll sing of the horses, Give them water to drink - And remain just a little longer on the brink... Iíll vanish, the hurricane will sweep me, snowflake-like, from a palm. And in the morn theyíll drag me in a sleigh, galloping over snow. Change to a leisurely gait, my horses, now just learn to be calm! Extend the course, just a little, to the final shelter we go! A little bit slower, horses, a little more slowly! Orders should not come from lash and whip. The horses theyíve given me this time are all so unruly, And Iím not through living, not through singing this trip. Iíll sing of the horses, Give them water to drink - And remain just a little longer on the brink... We have made it, guests to God cannot delay until tomorrow. Why do the angels there sing to us in voices so harsh and hoarse? Or is it but the harness bell jangling wildly out of sorrow? Or am I just screaming to the horses to slow their hectic course? A little bit slower, horses, a little more slowly! I beg - donít you gallop lest you slip! The horses theyíve given me this time are all so unruly, And Iím not through living, not through singing this trip. Iíll sing of the horses, Give them water to drink - And remain just a little longer on the brink...
© Albert Todd. Translation, ?