I seized my demon by the throat
and drowned him deep in white wine’s glow;
I was merciless — but all for naught,
he learned to swim twice over, though.
I bred a herd of snails in dreams,
and drove them wild with fumes of night;
yet when the morning spread its beams,
the sun dissolved them out of sight.
So all my efforts came to waste—
no flight from self, no way to go;
this sorrow’s plot is separation—
to live from one’s homeland, far below.