Had I but some leather or twine,
I’d tether the chimes of my mind
that their clanging might cease.
As a moth to the flame I’d fix my gaze
and wither away in the fire,
wither away in the fire.
But the torturous night and the cold, I am told,
will refine me like purified gold,
refine me like purified gold.
I still carry you around my neck.
Though you haunt my dreams,
those chimes sing, “morning is nigh.”

KORREKTUREN ÜBERMITTELN