I am much too alone in this world， yet not alone

    enough

    to truly consecrate¹ the hour.

    I am much too small in this world， yet not small

    enough

    to be to you just object and thing，

    dark and smart.

    I want my free will and want it accompanying

    the path which leads to action；

    and want during times that beg questions，

    where something is up，

    to be among those in the know，

    or else be alone.

    I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection，

    never be blind or too old

    to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.

    I want to unfold.

    Nowhere I wish to stay crooked²， bent³；

    for there I would be dishonest， untrue.

    I want my conscience to be

    true before you；

    want to describe myself like a picture I observed

    for a long time， one close up，

    like a new word I learned and embraced，

    like the everday jug⁴，

    like my mother's face，

    like a ship that carried me along

    through the deadliest storm.

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