The eyes of Berlin know my homeland.
But does the city understand my heart?
Does the city understand that I am still a child?
That I have not yet written a single line for my lover?
Shall I tell the streets here that their noise disquiets me?
But how?
Berlin is beautiful, just as she is.

I am the mad one, the angry one, the revolutionary.
Why do I possess no holy olive tree and no moon,
No homeland and no destiny?
Why does the city scatter the remaining fragments of my body
Between the cafés and books and women?
Why does she not hang me as a portrait in her nights?
At least for a few hours,
Or even for a few seconds only.

Does Berlin recognise my love?
And we meet,
Like a meeting of the sun with the lady of the moon.
Am I a stranger?
Between the madness of her thoughts.
Does she recognise me, or is she silent?
Does she rise above me?
Like a leaf in autumn,
I stumble on the way to her.