The Wayward Horses.

There’s a precipice beside me, on the brink of it I’m driving
In a sleigh pulled by proud horses, and I force them whipping, lashing...
Gasping, drink the mist and currents — hard against the wind I’m striving,
And perceive with morbid pleasure that to my sure death I’m dashing!

Do slow down a little, my horses, do slow down ye just a bit!
Don’t ye listen to the taut whip, I beg you, don’t!
But my horses are so wayward, can’t do anything with it —
There’s no time as for a life as for a song.

When I perish, like a feather off the hand the wind will blow me,
And my horses will drag on me in a dreary and cold morning...
Make your pace as slow as possible, my proud horses, walk ye slowly,
To my last resort don’t hurry, please, prolong the final journey!

Do slow down a little, my horses, do slow down ye just a bit!
Don’t ye listen to the taut whip, I beg you, don’t!
But my horses are so wayward, can’t do anything with it —
There’s no time as for a life as for a song.

We’re in time: when calls the Most High, it’s impossible to be lated.
But the voices sounding round me can’t be angels’, they’re full of hatred!
Maybe, it’s the frantic sobbing of the sleigh bell agitated,
Or my yelling at the horses is so strange and animated?

Do slow down a little, my horses, do slow down ye just a bit!
Don’t ye fly at your full speed, I beg you, don’t!
But my horses are so wayward, nothing can be done with it —
I have time nor for a life nor for a song.

1972.