It isn't me who shouts, it's the world that rumbles,

beware, beware, 'cause satan's gone crazy,

flatten yourself to the bottom of clear springs,

smoothen yourself into a sheet of glass,

hide behind the light of diamonds,

among bugs under the rocks,

oh, hide yourself in a freshly baked loaf,

you poor, poor . . .

Ooze into the ground with fresh rain showers –

in vain you soak it all into yourself,

you can wash your face only in others.

Be a tiny edge on a lone grassblade

and you'll be more than the axis of the world.

Oh machines, birds, branches, stars!

Our barren mother begs for a child.

My friend, my dear, loving friend,

either it's dreadful, or wonderful;

it isn't me who shouts, it's the world that rumbles.

1924

translated by Michael Castro & Gábor G. Gyukics