I dream, and distant lights I see. In sleep, Iím snoring. Well wait a while, it ought to be clear in the morning. But morning comes, thereís still no joy, and willyínilly, You find youíd rather smoke than eat, or drink yourself silly.         The bar looks smart, green tablecloths, white napkins there - Heaven for beggars and for fools - for me, a snare. In church, itís gloomy, incenseíladen, murky light - No, there as well, all isnít right, all isnít right. I climb a mountain, breathing hard, and cautious - very. Trees on the mountain, alders on high, below them, cherry. If all the slope were draped in plush, Iíd love the sight. And yet it lacks I know not what - all isnít right.         I walk in fields along a stream. Light, darkness - godless. The fields are bright with cornflower blue - the road seems endless. Witches could lurk beside the road, within the wood. At roadís end - block and axe, with headsman wearing hood. Horses hooves, clip clop, clip clop, riders unbending. Along the road, all isnít right - worse at its ending. Not in the church, not in the bar, thereís no salvation. All isnít right, lads, isnít right - Hell and damnation!        
© Jack Doughty. Translation, ?