Language is, believe me, you have my word,
a quarrel in which words beget others.
Lust and doubt live evermore in discord
with teasing by and amongst the lovers.
What’s going on? Birth, death, and life erased?
There I stand, no deeds, no finger lifted.
How’d I get to such an enchanted place?
Through the sieve of words the world is sifted.
Translated by Peter Winslow
Kraus, K. “Der Irrgarten.” Die Fackel. Nos. 443-444 (1916): 29. Print.